


Halls of Flowers

by avide_reader



Series: After Life Shenanigans [2]
Category: The Hobbit - All Media Types, The Lord of the Rings - All Media Types
Genre: After Life, An(other) Unexpected Journey, Angst with a Happy Ending, Arguing with Gods, BAMF Bilbo Baggins, BAMF Thorin, Bottom Bilbo Baggins, Dwarves in the Shire, Everyone is in the After Life, Fix-It, Hair-pulling, Happy Ending, Hurt Bilbo Baggins, Hurt Thorin, Hurt/Comfort, I Will Go Down With This Ship, M/M, Protective Thorin, Sassy Bilbo Baggins, Size Difference, Technically Major Character Death but it's okay, The Valar, Top Thorin, for now, or at least one
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-13
Updated: 2020-07-28
Packaged: 2021-03-03 19:55:29
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 29,008
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24691138
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/avide_reader/pseuds/avide_reader
Summary: Love can conquer all, they say. Even death.It's a statement both Bilbo and Thorin will have to verify as they are both set on finding each other in two completely different parts of the Valar under the rule of two divinities.
Relationships: Bilbo Baggins/Thorin Oakenshield, Bungo Baggins/Belladonna Took, Drogo Baggins/Primula Brandybuck, Thráin II/Thráin II's Wife, Thrór/Thrór's Wife
Series: After Life Shenanigans [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1784932
Comments: 75
Kudos: 430





	1. Waking up

**Author's Note:**

> After writing Health of a Garden, the plot bunny went completely mad and I had to write this story. I'm still not sure how many chapters this will include (and honestly, I don't even know where I'm going with this), but your comments spurred me on and I couldn't seem to stop writing, so here I am! 
> 
> Enjoy this first chapter!

Bilbo Baggins was a lot of things. He was fussy, bossy, selfish, reckless, antisocial and odd. He also liked to think he had a few qualities, like being well-read, courageous, determined, clever and curious.

The last of those things was most certainly what made him touch the thin petal membrane of the giant flower that had apparently swallowed him in his sleep.

His hands, he had discovered when he’d woken up, were smooth with youth, as were his feet, with his hair light brown and curly. When he’d ran his fingers on his head, thick curls he hadn’t rocked in years had slid against his skin. His pain and aches had left, as had the horrible emptiness the Ring had clawed into his chest.

(His heart still wasn’t full, though; it hadn’t been in many, many years.)

His fingers left the red petal and it folded back before him. He hummed thoughtfully as the puzzle pieces added themselves easily enough to form a picture.

His suspicion was confirmed when, waiting in front of his flower, were four hobbits that had died long before he had.

The one on the far left was a little shorter than Bilbo himself, with a stomach straining the golden buttons on his vest. His light brown curls were a match for Bilbo’s own and his face seemed permanently stuck in a smile which did nothing to hide his straight nose and strong jaw his favorite nephew had inherited.

The lady hobbit standing next to him was a little taller with black hair reaching her waist in soft curls. Her blue eyes sparkled in the fading sunlight and her freckles crinkled with her smile. Like her husband, she looked very much like her son.

The next hobbit was actually quite tall and lanky for one of his species. His ash blonde curls were neatly brushed and trimmed and his clothes properly ironed and cleaned. His round nose and quirky smile were, like the rest of him, a perfect copy of Bilbo.

The only thing that didn’t match with his son was the eyes his wife was currently crinkling. She was the shortest of the bunch, with chestnut curls wrapped in a ponytail. She was tanned, freckled and dirty, from her furry toes to the top of the red bandana atop her head. She was the only one of them with defined muscles and Bilbo felt incredibly proud at the sight.

He then realized feeling pride in regards to his mother was quite silly, considering she was, well, his mother, and not Frodo.

He was getting old.

“Bilbo!” She exclaimed with all the Tookishness she could muster. “My boy, I have been waiting a long time for you and am I glad of it!” She broke into a run, under Bungo’s fond disapproval.

Bilbo met her halfway, lifted her in a hug and twirled her in the air.

“I’ve missed you too.” He told in the crook of her neck, which he’d bent down to hide against.

He felt her laugh against him before she detangled herself from his embrace.

She had a patch of dirt on her cheeks, hiding her freckles and her murky brown-blue-grey eyes shone with mischief.

“I’ve heard you’ve lived quite the adventure!” She crowed proudly.

His father had since then walked up to them and put both of his clean hands on her shoulders.

“Belladonna, dear, let’s not overwhelm him so soon. I’m sure he’ll need time to adjust, as we all did.”

“If you think my son needs time for adjusting, we’ve clearly not heard the same stories, Bungo Baggins!” His mother claimed happily.

Bilbo detached his gaze from his firecracker of a mom to turn his father. “Dad.” He stated formally.

Bungo answered in the same tone. “Son. You’ve caused quite the ruckus here. The rumors spread faster here than in the Shire, or so I’m told. Everyone knows of you.”

Bilbo gulped. “I’m proud of you, son.” His father murmured in a calm voice.

When their eyes met, there was a quiet understanding.

They didn’t get to exchange more words when Drogo and Primula came up to them.

Drogo had a beaming smile on his face, as he always did, and he greeted his cousin with a firm handshake and laughter.

Primula had tears staining her cheeks and she couldn’t seem to stop stroking his cheek.

“I’m glad to see you all.” Bilbo said, a fist enclosing his throat.

There was some gushing and the lot of them ushered him into a replica of the Shire, the only difference residing in more smials the residents had to make themselves.

“When a new hobbit pops from their flower, some carpenters will propose their services.” Drogo explained. “We have enough of them so that the rest of the village doesn’t need to help, though most do in honor of the tradition.”

“Don’t we run out of place?” Bilbo pried.

Bungo was the one to answer. “Lady Yavanna has made sure that every one of us will have a plot within her realm.”

Bilbo nodded. It made quite a lot of sense. “And what about our appearances?” He questioned, gesturing towards himself.

Seeing his parents seemingly younger than his fifty years (or what felt close to it) was strange in ways he could hardly describe.

His mother, all smiles, shrugged carelessly. “There are some theories. I think the most widely accepted one is that we look like what we looked like in the happiest times of our lives.”

Once again, it made sense, Bilbo thought in the privacy of his own mind. If there was ever a time in his life he’d wished more than once he could go back to, it was his crazy adventure. His mother would be proud. She probably was, considering her smirk.

Of course, his time raising Frodo had brought just as much joy in his life, but he guessed it was easier for his appearance to settle over 13 months rather than 50 years.

As they passed through the Shire, Bilbo felt numerous eyes settle on him and he wondered if anyone had told them a reliable recount of his stories. He’d have to guess not.

His thoughts turned sour when he saw children passing by, squealing in delight.

Primula whispered in his ear. “Some of them are technically grown-ups. Some are actually kits, it depends.”

Bilbo sighed. Hobbitlings deserved long, full lives, but he knew being here was better than nothing.

They climbed up the hill leading to Bag-End. The smell of baked goods wafted through the chilly evening air. Under his feet, the earth felt soft and the setting sun brought a pink glow to the world that had been direly absent in the Undying Lands and which he had missed.

His travelling companions barely spoke a word, letting him acclimate to his new, yet familiar surroundings.

The smial atop the hill was painful in ways only a childish memory could be.

The little round door (which he’d later painted green) still stood at the end of a rock path. The fence protected a bed of flowers the family had lost during the Fell Winter and instead of the bench he’d installed some years ago for smoking and reading, there stood a four placed swing with a fabric ceiling.

The five hobbits all entered the cozy little smial. With a start, Bilbo realized he really hadn’t changed anything after his parents’ death and before Gandalf convinced him to run out the door.

Bungo was already heading towards the kitchen with talks of tea and scones.

His mother sat him down on a chair and forced Drogo and Primula next to him. Belladonna plopped herself on her son’s other side, hands held between her face. She immediately started her inquisition. She spoke a mile a minute to compensate for all of her questions. 

“Did you really follow thirteen dwarves for thirteen months? And reclaim their kingdom? I heard you passed through Rivendell, I hope you said hello to Lord Elrond from me!”

Bungo entered the dining room with a tray full of tea cups, scones, herbs, honey and a fuming tea pot.

“Bella." He admonished. "Let us eat before we talk about all of his adventuring. It’s not proper talk for dinner and it ruins my appetite.”

His mom pouted good naturedly. “Yes dear.”

Drogo and Primula chuckled and Bilbo let a snort out.

Tea time was spent with some fond ribbing between all of the Baggins and Belladonna doing her best to subtly inquire about the months he spent with a Company of rowdy dwarrows.

When the last droughts of warm liquid had been swallowed and pieces of scones had vanished in eager mouths (truly, Bungo Baggins had a talent for cooking the little pastries), they all moved to the living room.

Bilbo left his usual armchair to his father in favor of a beanbag directly in front of the hearth. Drogo and Primula curled up next to each other on the couch and his mother practically bounced on Bungo’s lap in excitement while her husband ran a southing hand down her back.

Drogo filled his pipe and rattled his throat twice.

The sweet scent of Old Toby filled the room and mingled with that of fire, burning wood and old, but well sought after fabric.

With his family around him, in the warmth of the Bag-End of his childhood, Bilbo started recounting his stories. He left nothing out and even insisted on that stupid Ring of his and how stupid he had been about keeping it.

Like the kits he used to tell his stories to, the two couples were hanging on every word that left his lips.

The sun set behind them and the moon rose, bathing the living room with a blue light confronting that of the still burning fire.

When he spoke about the members of his Company, especially Fìli and Kìli, his voice hitched. When Thorin’s name caressed his tongue, his eyes burned in an age-old and well known pain.

The sun was peeking through the windows when Bilbo finished his tale and Drogo, for all his ready ears, seemed about to fall asleep.

“And Frodo?” Primula broke the silence that had settled after Bilbo had finished describing the Durin’s funerals.

“I think it’s a story for another time.” He whispered softly. “But be reassured that he made it back and that we spent many years in the Undying Lands – the place where elves go instead of dying – together.”

His nephew’s mother still had tears in her eyes, but she nodded understandingly. Bilbo had no illusion that she would come knocking to know her son’s tale soon enough.

Drogo and Primula were escorted out by a tired, but pleased Belladonna while Bungo showed Bilbo the room he had been promised in Bag-End.

It was, quite unsurprisingly, his old bedroom. There was a hearth in a corner and a round bed eating at the space. The fresh sheets were burgundy red and filled bookshelves stood against every possible surface, the only interruption being a writing desk. Bilbo ran a finger over the ink and paper laid on it.

“We weren’t sure if you would like it once grown, but you always read too many books and you used to say you’d become a writer, so your mother and I thought it appropriate.” Bungo interrupted his examination of the room in a soft voice.

Bilbo couldn’t help the small smile. “Thank you. It is perfect.” He looked at his father in the eyes. “I did become a writer, you know… The story I just told all of you, I wrote it.”

Bungo let slip a small smile. “I had guessed.” He didn’t elaborate.

The silence stretched between father and son, though it was warm and calm like the bedroom they were standing in.

“Do you miss him?”

Bilbo huffed. “Frodo or Thorin?”

Bungo didn’t answer, but the look in his eyes and the way they veered towards the door where they could here Belladonna’s loud laughter said it all.

“I do. Every day of my life. Or whatever this is…”

Bungo’s gaze adverted. “I hate adventuring. It’s dirty and improper and it makes you late for dinner.” The last part made Bilbo snort under the amused twinkle in his father’s eyes. “However, I understand what you’re feeling when you speak of him. After your mother…” He sucked in a breath and amended. “After the Fell Winter, I would have gone all over Middle-Earth and done all the adventuring possible just to see her again once.”

The solemn look in his father’s eyes squeezed something in his chest.

“It’s not very proper, is it?”

Bungo huffed and it sounded so much like Bilbo, if he hadn’t known he’d kept quiet, he would have thought he’d made the surprised laugh.

“No, not very much.” He acknowledged. “But for your mother, I’d be ready to be as improper and as unhobbitish as I would have to.”

Bilbo nodded slowly. Their conversation was interrupted but the smial’s door closing and Belladonna appearing in the bedroom. She took one look at their faces before a knowing grin lit her features.

“Boy talk, heh?” She drawled approvingly.

“Something of the like.” Bungo concurred.

Good nights and hugs were exchanged and finally Bilbo was left alone.

He slithered to the bathroom linked to his bedroom. Quickly, the hobbit drew himself a bath in which he spent a long moment, thoughts whirling.

The warm water rolled against his skin and the scent of lavender and honey drifted in the small room.

To be fair, finding Thorin (and the rest of the Company at the same time) had been an idea that had been munching on the back of his brain since he’d stepped out of his big red flower.

How, he had no idea. He was definitely in Yavanna’s realm and transferring to Mahal’s Halls seemed impossible. He twisted the idea in his brain as the mist curled his hair.

No idea lit up his brain in the bath, nor while he was brushing his teeth and even less when he slipped into soft pajamas he knew belonged to his father by the length of the legs and arms.

Bilbo wrapped himself into cozy sheets. His father had given him his blessing to shake a few trees and find Thorin. The idea of it was both thrilling and laughable.

As the sun rose in the sky steadily, Bilbo let thoughts of blue eyes lull him to sleep.


	2. Burning One

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In the Halls, Thorin discovers of Bilbo's passing and calls a family reunion to try to find a solution in reaching out to his hobbit.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Let me warn you. This chapter is a filler. Not much happens, but it's pretty much necessary. When writing it, I felt like it was sooooo long, but rereading myself and editing make it seem pretty short. Not sure what to think about that... 
> 
> By the way, sorry for the slight delay, I had a school event and I just started working again (which kind of stresses me out because I've never been really good with public interactions and after so long without it, I feel like I don't know how to talk to strangers anymore), but anyways. 
> 
> I hope you enjoy this chapter.

Mahal had gifted his children with many things – thicker bones, natural strength, superior endurance, so on and so forth.

Happily wed, the divinity had also wanted to make sure his creations could feel the same happiness as he did with his wife. The concept of Ones was then brought to life.

With it came a perk that no dwarf knew about until they entered their Maker’s Halls.

Thorin had first heard about it from his mother. Frìs had spoken in low voices about how she had known Thraìn had been alive for many years after the Battle of Azanulbizar (when his father himself had told him of where he had disappeared to, Thorin had never wanted to have been more wrong). She had described the feeling of her One entering the After Life as a great light shining in her heart.

Thorin respectfully thought his mother had lied to his face, because it felt like someone had thrusted the sun two inches away from his face and that instead of his eyes, it was his heart that was being exposed to the burning light. And it wasn’t romantic in any way, it felt more like being scorched alive, as if he’d fallen face first into boiling metal.

He was left a gasping mess on the ground, not even coherent enough to be glad he was alone in the forges. The only thing he longed for was for the pain to stop. Like most things in his life and his after life, things didn’t abide to his request and he lay on the ground, shaking like a freshly plucked leaf in autumn for Mahal knew how long.

When the pain slowly but surely retreated and he was able to think more clearly, he realized his throat was raw, though Thorin couldn’t tell if it had been from screaming or lack of it.

His body was drenched in the kind of cold sweat that could only be brought forth by pain, fear or both. His hair was sticking to his temples, shoulders, chest and back. When he raised a hand to his face to wipe the tears he hadn’t realized he’d shed, Thorin saw his hand shake unsteadily. Crawling to his knees felt like a feat and he had to sit back on his haunches to catch his breath before attempting to get his feet under himself.

His body cooperated badly, but he guessed he couldn’t ask more after the stimuli it had endured.

Once he was standing on mostly steady legs, he removed the leather apron he’d donned once in the forges. It slid from listless and clumsy fingers and fell into a soft puddle on the ground.

He didn’t bother picking it up.

His boots scraped the stony ground as he made his way to a chair he’d specifically put there a week into his stay here. His undershirt innocently lay on it, having watched his struggle from the beginning.

Putting it on was a comfort even if he didn’t manage to close the neckline, leaving his pectoral muscles exposed and a peek from his sternum. In a practice move, he tugged his hair from under his collar. Fabric still stuck to his sweaty skin, as did the occasional rebel lock, but he already felt better.

With a clearer head, he managed to piece together what he knew.

Bilbo was dead and in the Valar.

That first statement pinched his heart in his chest as much as it elated it. No matter that he knew this day would come; he would always wish his One had lived one more day. Just one. At the same time, he was glad he would once again see the bossy little hobbit.

And this line of thought brought him to the second fact.

Bilbo was a hobbit and while it hadn’t been a problem in life, it was one now. Bilbo wouldn’t be coming to the Halls. He would probably be sharing an afterlife with those of his own kind and not dwarrows.

This led to his third knowable variable.

He would get Bilbo. He didn’t know how yet, but he would.

Passing a hand over his face with a tired exhalation, he tried to think. He had no idea how he would go through the Valar, but he was determined to do it. One thing was certain, one head (or at least his) couldn’t find a solution to his problem. His thoughts immediately went to his family.

His first stop was the aviary. The endless stairs made his thighs burn in the pleasant way they always did when climbing so high. He pushed the door open and was greeted with several caws and shouts.

A raven as big as his arm settled on his shoulder.

“Roäc.” Thorin greeted formally.

The bird cackled and unpicked his side braid. Thorin let him.

“Thorin Oakenshield. What message shall I deliver?” Roäc inquired, a bit snidely.

The dwarf let his fingers caress his friend’s shiny plumage. “I would ask of you to gather my grandparents and parents as well as my siblings, Vìli, my nephews and all the members of the Company that reside in these Halls.”

The raven let out a croak. “Can’t you do so yourself?”

Thorin continued his petting of the bird, knowing by the faked annoyance in the bird’s tone he would do it. He was too bored these days to refuse such a simple task.

“I could, but I am but a dwarf and you would be so much faster.”

Roäc once again picked at his braid. “Very well.” He sighed, like Thorin wasn’t asking him to do his job.

“Where shall they find you?”

Thorin thought for a moment. “Please tell them I’ll be waiting in my quarters.”

Decision made, the dwarrow left the aviary, Roäc still heavy on his arm. As soon as the wooden door was closed behind the both of them, he flew away, inky wings stretching wide and brushing the stone of the walls delicately.

Thorin’s own descent was slower and he immediately turned for his own hall.

The halls were all similar, but no dwarf could ever get lost wrapped up as they were in stone. More often than once, Thorin found he longed for calm, rolling hills of green, little round doors and a brilliant smile that eclipsed the brightest of jewels.

The halls that held his family and some ancestors had been made with stone which boar a blue tint. Very few dwarves spent their days in these corridors, preferring the library, the forges, the kitchens or any number of other places their Maker had provided them with.

The door which led to Thorin’s apartments was, like its siblings, dark Durin blue. Raised from the wood grain was an oak, imposing and seemingly growing from what which it was carved from. Each door held a carving, normally reminiscent of a dwarf’s epithet, findings or exploits. Thròr’s had been the Arkenstone before he’d broken it down in favor of a plain wooden door.

Thorin pushed inside his rooms.

The room the door opened to was the living room. A hearth still crackled in middle of the wall on the left. Numerous armchairs and couches stared at it with a furry rug laid at their wooden feet. A small table stood in between two armchairs, with atop of it a wooden carving in process of being made with a small whittling knife as well as a half read book. An oak shield was held above the fireplace and numerous weapons and other metal objects as well as a few wooden trinkets were scattered all over the place and nailed on walls. He had taken wood carving thirty years after he’d appeared in the Halls and while he was nowhere near as good at it as he was at forging (nor did he like it as much), it passed the time and made him think of his hobbit.

The only of his creations which he always had on him (and that held importance to him) was a small acorn crafted from oak wood.

Thorin bypassed the door that led to his bedroom in favor of his bathing room.

The room was massive and fit for the king he’d barely been. The bath looked more like a tiny pool engraved in the rock floor. The walls shone with unmined riches and brought light in the otherwise dark space. The water murmured softly and beckoned his sore body.

Now was not the time to lounge in his bath, however, as his family could already be on their way, so he shrugged of his sweaty clothing and let the water claim him.

The soap was brushed harshly against sore muscles and the washing and rinsing of his hair gave him little piece of mind.

Thorin walked out of his bath, trickles of water running down his humid body. Drops clung to his chest and legs and he scrubbed a warm towel to intercept them before they could create a puddle on the floor. His wet hair was amassed together atop his head and held with a second towel.

He left watery foot prints on the stone cold floors as he left his bathroom for his bedroom, where he shucked both pieces of thick fabric in favor of a tunic, trousers and his boots. Thorin didn’t bother braiding his clingy hair, nor did he clad himself in useless accessories like a belt or a chain mail.

When he exited his room, the first knocking echoed in his quarters.

The door was opened to reveal Dwalin and Ori. The former had fallen in the Battle of Erebor, fought during the War of the Ring while the second had drew his last breath in Moria some time before the War’s official start. His best friend looked incredibly similar to how they had last seen each other, with strips of white in his beard and a few more wrinkles being the only glaring differences. The former scribe, for his part, had aged well. He’d grown a fuller beard after Thorin’s demise and seemed a lot more confident than during their journey.

“I’m guessing this ain’t a social call.” Dwalin quipped gruffly.

Ori shifted slightly at his side, but didn’t say anything.

“It isn’t.” He confirmed.

With a hand gesture, his two friends entered his apartments and made themselves comfortable. Ori claimed an armchair while Dwalin let himself fall on the rug.

Dwalin was still sprawled on the ground when the second knock came. Oìn, Balin and Dori were the ones behind the door this time. The first two had succumbed in Moria like Ori, while the third was one of the few dwarrows Thorin knew that had died of old age at a respectable 307 years old a year or two after the Battle of Dale.

Balin spoke first. “Thorin, we received the message. May we come in?”

From what smarter dwarves than him had understood, Mahal made his children enter his Halls looking like they did when they died. The why was unknown, but it was theorized that their Maker thought they should all be proud of how long they had fought and that every dwarrow should see it.

As such, Balin looked a great deal older and wearier than when Thorin had known him in life. He had more wrinkles, age spots and scars than during their journey.

Mahal, for all his decisions on physical appearances, did heal wounds and Oìn had fully recovered his hearing in death, no matter what he still faked.

Dori managed to look completely unchanged, down to the last braid, which both baffled and amused most.

Thorin let them enter and made sure they were all comfortable before another knock was heard.

Bombur and Bofur came in next. Neither was much changed, though a few strings of silver could be spied in the miner’s hair, to his complete denial. Bofur had died in an excavation sometime in the recent years, while his brother had perished during the War of the Ring.

“Your Majesty!” The miner jokingly exclaimed. “If this is some new mission impossible, afterlife edition, ya can count me in!” If there was one thing that Bofur had carried in the Halls, it was his optimistic enthusiasm. Thorin had been incredibly uncomfortable the first time Bofur had surprised him with the title. He'd haltingnly inquired as to why his old friend would call him that when Daìn (and later on Thorin III) had been his king. Bofur had answered in a surprisingly honest voice that 'Daìn was a good king, all right. But he was never _my_ King.' Thorin had gone misty eyed and had had to excuse himself.

Bombur was more subdued in his greetings, but no less sincere.

After them came a lonely Nori who had also lost his life in the Battle of Erebor. He managed to squirrel away in the room without using the door. One second he wasn’t there, the next he was sitting on his younger brother’s chair’s arm. He had a huge grin on his face.

Fìli and Kìli hadn’t turned up yet, nor would Gloìn and Bifur, who were still alive.

The next knock was so regal and controlled; Thorin felt his spine straightened up.

When he opened the door, his grandfather, with his long white hair and beard, claimed by jewelry befitting of a king stood by his wife’s side. Audhild had long, fiery red hair tangled with braids and precious stones befitting of her status as an ex-queen. Her beard was carefully plaited (Bilbo would probably akin it to the way one would fold the crust of a pie) and it was littered with shiny beads. His grandmother’s authoritative grey eyes stared him down as he let his two elders in.

“Why have you asked us to come here, Thorin?” Thròr inquired as he regally sat in his grandson’s armchair. His wife stood standing next to him.

Thorin sucked in his lower lip. “I’ll explain myself once everyone is here.”

Audhild’s displeased look made an uncomfortable _something_ crawl up his back, like a spider. His grandmother had died long before Smaug had come or before Erebor had found that blasted Arkenstone. She had never seen her husband afflicted by gold sickness nor had she lived through poverty. She had been a noble woman before she’d been Queen, as her posture and cold gaze showed.

The atmosphere of the room grew colder as Audhild took in the lesser ranked dwarves. Her eyes lingered on Bofur, Nori and Bombur the most. She had been a diplomatic queen once, though, so she kept her snide comments to herself.

The next ones to come in were Thraìn, Frìs, Dìs, Vìli and Frerin.

His mild mannered father still sent weary looks in every direction once in a while, but his paranoia had greatly diminished with his years in the Halls and with his beautiful wife next to him, he seemed a lot calmer.

Frìs was the one who had brought blonde hair in the family and they shone gold in the low light. Her brown eyes twinkled and brought out the beads and stones in the braids of her hair as well as the one she had tugged her short beard into. She had lost her life when Smaug had come into the Lonely Mountain.

Dìs was a perfect mixt of her two parents with her mother’s eyes, her father’s once black mane and strong nose. Her curls ran down her back in rivulets of braids and precious stones and beads that still lacked white hair, to her eternal joy (and Thorin's misery, since she had died older than he). Out of the three women in Thorin’s life, Dìs was the one with the shortest facial hair, which were limited to side whiskers she carefully brushed every morning. Fashion had greatly changed in years, Thorin had seen, and dwarrowdams had seen their beards grow shorter with time. If it was an influence of men or simply because many dwarves had lost their homes and keeping their beards shorter was easier, he would never know.

Frerin was the one who looked the most like his mother, with his golden hair and easy smile, though his eyes were all Thraìn. Unlike most of the direct line of Durin, Frerin preferred gold accessories to silver ones and it showed in his beads, stones and metal trinkets.

Vìli stood proudly next to his wife with his chocolate hair and eyes, which Kìli had inherited, as well as a beard which had never completely grown because of his too early demise in the Battle of Azanulbizar.

“Thorny-Thorn!” Frerin exclaimed happily, tugging Thorin in a bear hug, which he happily returned with a groan. 

Frerin was the third person he exchanged an embrace with after he arrived in the Halls, Fìli and Kìli being the two first.

Dìs came next and they softly knocked their foreheads together in a more traditional greeting between siblings. He’d been devastated to learn she’d lost her life during the Battle of Dale.

“I hope it isn’t anything too bad.” She whispered softly. Her anger at him for leading her two sons to their deaths, while not absent, had greatly diminished in the last few years. While he understood her pain (he felt a great amount of guilt and rage at himself too) he was only too glad his little sister still spoke to him.

Thraìn and Frìs followed their children in Thorin’s apartments, Vìli not far behind and the only two missing dwarves were Fìli and Kìli.

They didn’t have to wait long. Everyone had settled down when the two rascals came barging in, not even bothering to knock.

Kìli cheerily greeted his uncle and seemed pleased to see the rest of his family all in one place, but it was Fìli who seemed to know what was going on. With a subtle nudge at his brother, they sat themselves in front of the fire and waited.

Thorin didn’t bother beating around the bush.

“I need to speak to Mahal and I don’t know how. I had hoped one of you might be able to help.”

The cacophony that burst at his announcement should have been expected, it really should have. But it still took him by surprise.

When it seemed no one would try to let their comrades speak, Thorin cut them off. “Enough.” He didn’t shout, but it seemed to bring everyone to attention, just like that night in a little hobbit hole so long ago now.

Thròr and Audhild seemed especially put out to have naturally listened to the order given to them.

He didn’t blame them. When royalty was being ordered around, they never liked it.

Balin was the one who spoke, calm lacing every word. “Why would you need to speak to our Maker, laddie?”

Thorin sucked in a breath. “Bilbo died.” He whispered. “And I need to go see him, but I can’t do so without leaving the Halls. The only one who could let me out is Mahal.”

There was a deafening silence in the small room before his grandmother spoke up, with all the distaste of a queen.

“Why would you need to find this Bilbo if he is not one of our own? And how do you even know of his demise?”

Thorin would always be impressed that Audhild could make neutral words sound to disgusted.

When he saw a few people silently agree (none of the Company, the ex-King Under the Mountain noted unsurprisingly) he made himself answer.

“The reasons I need to find him and that I know of his passing are one and the same. He is my One.”

Balin let a knowing grin appear on his face, while Dwalin, Nori, Bofur, Fìli and Kìli cought pouches of money mid-air from Ori, Dori, Bombur and Oìn.

Dìs sported a pleased, if discreet smile and Frerin giggled like a schoolboy. Frìs had that soft look in her eyes and Thraìn twitched non-stop. Thròr and Audhild shared an expression of disappointment, but held their tongues.

Ideas where then thrown left and right, from praying to Mahal for 24 hours straight (“I don’t think that’s physically possible, Oìn”) to displeasing the deity to the point he just _had_ to come down (“And then ask him to give you a favor? That’s so stupid Kee.” “Well at least _I_ ’m giving ideas, Fee.”).

In the end, it was Dìs who found the most probable solution. “What if you talked to Durin? He’s been reincarnated quite a few times, no? He should know where to find Mahal.”

Thorin found it bloody brilliant.

Grandmother Audhild scoffed in the corner. “And how are we supposed to find Durin?”

“Bind him? Are we sure that’s a good idea?” Oìn inquired a bit too innocently.

Dwalin guffawed. “ _I_ know where ta find ‘im.”

Interested glances landed on him. “The trainin’ ground. Can always be sure ta find ‘im there.”

And so, it was settled.

Thorin would find himself on the training ground the next morning to beg his ancestor about his Maker’s whereabouts in order to find his hobbit. Somehow, it sounded better in his head than when Balin reviewed the plan.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Audhild's name is actually pronouced OUD-hilt and it means 'fighting for wealth'. Considering who her husband is, I thought it was pretty ironic.  
> In dwarrow culture, people don't have last names and they need something to let everyone know they're in the same family, as you all know. Thorin most definitely takes after Thraìn (who takes after Thròr) and so that left Frerin and Dìs with their incredibly different name styles. So I thought, what if they had been named after their mother? I mushed their two names together and boom! Frìs. It's a simple as that.  
> For Vìli, I read it in a lot of fics, liked it and kept it.
> 
> When I say the 'Battle of Erebor' and the 'Battle of Dale', I'm referring to the same thing. In Tolkien mythos, it's officially called the Battle of Dale, but I feel like dwarves would call it the Battle of Erebor too. Also, it stops too much repetition. 
> 
> Finally, I hope you enjoyed this second chapter! Leave Kudos and comments (please comment, I love reading what you have to say) and remember constructive criticism is always appreciated. Enjoy a good day/evening/night!


	3. Divine Challenge

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bilbo and Thorin meet deities and have to make a choice.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This guy took me a while. I had to add a few things and edit out others and overall make it, in my mind, presentable. I'm pretty satisfied with it as of now. Maybe I'll come back later and change a few things if I feel the need to.
> 
> This story is coming to its end, I can feel it. I'm thinking three more chapters for the trials and then one epilogue. 
> 
> Enjoy your read!

Finding Durin turned out to be a lot easier than Thorin had thought. His ancestor was indeed on the training ground, in the axes’ section.

The training ground was divided in such a way that you entered in the Mattock’s section. By turning left, you continued with the swords, where Thorin normally trained, and further away the grounds opened in the archers’ corner. If you turned right, you tumbled in the hands to hands combat and a sharp turn left there brought you to the axes’ training grounds.

Dwalin confidentially led him forward, the other dwarves seemingly parting before his impressive stature. A few of them sent jabs and smirks, but none of them tried to interrupt their path.

Thorin knew they had found the Deathless before Dwalin pointed him out. He was easily one of the (if not the) best fighters on the grounds, swinging his weapon with a deadly accuracy. He hit hard, yet gracefully the numerous dummies around him, cutting them down until they were no more. Durin had wild, long black hair, stripped with white, tied into numerous braids that told his important position and beads that silently let everyone know of his deeds. He had a large nose, like most of his descendants and a flash of icy blue let Thorin knew that they also shared eye color. His armor was a mixture of the best kind of protection the last centuries had created, giving him a timeless look.

When he turned towards them, his eyes lit up in recognition. His axe hung from a hand the size of a plate.

“Dwalin!” He burst out. Durin was almost as tall as his friend and just as wide. He grabbed the ex-Captain of Security by the collar of shirt and slammed their foreheads together in a mighty crack.

Dwalin chuckled, rubbing his skull. “Tis' always good ta see ya, m’lord.”

“Ack!” He grumbled well naturedly. “I told you to never call me that.”

His sharp eyes slid to Thorin. “Thorin II, son of Thraìn, son of Thròr, said Oakenshield.”

His gaze was piercing and Thorin wondered if the old dwarf already knew why he was here. His imposing ancestor leaned down. “May I confess something?” He didn’t wait for an answer. “I always liked that epithet. Wish I’d gotten one like that. Alas, the Powers that Be forbid me from reincarnating as you. Shame, really.”

Durin seemed lost in thoughts for a second, like he was reliving a conversation. He snapped back to attention.

“But I’m guessing you’re not here to talk about your name, nor are you are here to hear the stories of your great-great-great-great grandfather or something of the like.”

“You would be right.”

“Of course I’m right!” The Deathless scoffed. “I wasn’t born yesterday!”

Dwalin and the other warrior roared in laughter at Durin’s comment. Thorin glared at his friend.

“What do you want to ask?”

Thorin twisted the word in his head for a second, wanting them to come out exactly right, even though he knew they wouldn’t.

“I need to talk to Mahal.”

Durin froze in place, his jovial face stuck in an incredulous expression, the muscles of his bare forearms twitching unsteadily.

When he finally gained his voice back, it was to confirm what he’d heard. “You want to speak to Mahal?”

“I _need_ to.”

The fighting and practicing around them gave an unrealistic quality to the moment.

Finally, the Deathless inquired. “Why?”

Unsure, Thorin threw a look towards Dwalin. The two of them seemed well acquainted and the ex-King Under the Mountain knew that his best friend would subtly tell him if they couldn’t trust their ancestor.

The imposing dwarrow gave a slow nod, so Thorin spoke.

“It’s for my One. He’s not a dwarf and so, he’s not here. And I need to see him. I need to speak to Mahal to be able to change after life, to go to him.”

Durin bit his lower lip and sputtered when he swallowed hair. “And you think I can help you how?”

Dwalin was the one to answer him. “Ya’ve been reincarnated many times 'fore. We thought maybe ye had a way to contact 'im.”

Durin eyed them both warily.

Thorin felt sweat starting to accumulate on his lower back and above his brow. His heart beat a tempo it hadn’t since the Battle of the Five Armies.

Dwalin was a steady presence by his side Thorin wouldn’t have traded for the world.

“Follow me.” The Deathless finally uttered.

Waking up meant getting out of bed and Bilbo wasn’t sure if he was ready for either. He’d spent yesterday in bed, sleeping through what his parents informed him was some sort of whiplash. Apparently, dying took its toll on the body. And then, to pull an all-nighter of reliving a stress inducing story was detrimental. Who would have guessed?

After spending a whole day in bed, Bilbo felt rejuvenated. He also felt like he was trapped in his own skin. Ignoring his uneasiness at confronting both of his dead parents, he tugged the covers away and got dressed. It was with a lot of trepidation that he made his way outside and buried his hands in his mother’s tomato plants.

Bungo found him there, dirty and sweaty, but feeling a lot more relaxed.

“Are you feeling better?” He questioned, cup of tea in hand.

Bilbo nodded. “After the whiplash faded, I just needed to do something. Gardening helps.”

Bungo exited the back door and walked over the smooth rock, warmed by the sun, of the terrace. In a small shaded space, he and Belladonna had put a little table with two chairs, all made of wood. The Baggins patriarch seated himself there and watched his son remove weeds from his mother’s plants. Bilbo did indeed seem a lot more peaceful than he had two nights ago when he’d told his story or yesterday, when Bungo had brought him dinner in bed, and he had seemed plagued by bad dreams. He’d gotten back the tray untouched and he was convinced his boy hadn’t even woken up.

Whiplash hit everyone differently. Personally, he’d slept for two days straight. Belladonna, on the other hand, hadn’t hit the pillow for a whole week. She had jumped through the house, doing this and that in a familiar nervous energy.

Bungo took a sip of his honey sweetened tea, eyes on his boy.

He thought about what he’d said two nights ago. He was indeed proud of his son (because he was, well, his son and because Bella would whack him with a spoon if he wasn’t) but he couldn’t help but worry. He had given Bilbo his benediction to find his dwarf, but he still felt incredibly unsure. The first reason was because his son’s love was a male. Now, he knew it was done, he wasn’t a complete idiot, thank you very much, but he also knew it wasn’t something to be seen or talked about. It was something two hobbits did in the middle of the night, when no prying eyes could spy them and that was simply forgotten in broad daylight. And if he knew anything about his boy, he was convinced Bilbo wouldn’t hide away his relationship, even if it was with a man. The second reason was his race. When Bilbo did something, he didn’t do it halfway, certainly. Not only a man, but a dwarrow at that! He had never met a dwarf, but from what he’d heard, they were rude and barbaric. He didn’t want his son with a barbarian! Not only because it wasn’t proper, but because…well. He was a rude barbarian. Finally, he worried because it had been almost a hundred years since they had last seen each other. And, from what he could remember, they had known each other from a little more than a year, time in which they had not always been friends. Bungo wasn’t sure he wanted his son angering deities for a male dwarf friend that had almost killed him.

If he could have chosen for Bilbo, he would have given him a nice little hobbit lass. But alas, the heart wanted what it wanted and he’d learned it the hard way. He knew his own father had had a few choice words when he’d announced he would marry wild Belladonna Took. He’d had to defend his decision every step of the way and still did even in death. Mungo still barely talked to him, angered by his son’s choice in wife.

Bungo couldn’t understand what drew Bilbo to his dwarf, nor would he ever stop worrying, but he knew he could offer the support his boy needed. It wasn’t much, but it was all he could give. That, and hope for the best.

When Bilbo raised his head, whipping his sweaty forehead with a dirty forearm (his hands were stuffed in gardening gloves he hadn’t worn in ages) and gave him a bright smile, Bungo was transported back to when his son was but a wee lad and would playfully attack Bella’s wizard friend. Yes, he decided, he’d made the right decision by saying what he’d said two nights ago, if only to have his boy smile at him like that.

Bungo gulped the last drought of his tea, got up and reentered the house. Belladonna would be back from the market soon.

Left alone, Bilbo looked down at his plant.

A slight rustle behind him made him whirl around.

The hobbit lass that was staring at him had skin the color of bark and eyes the shade of fresh grass. Her hair fell in rivulets of sun warmth and Her freckles dotted Her face like bees in a garden. She wore simple clothes, flowy and green and natural. Her waist was synched by a metal belt, shiny and light. The crown on Her head was also made of mithril (he would know that metal everywhere) and shaped to represent tree branches encircling Her head, with flowers blossoming all around Her. Priceless jewels reflected the sunlight and Her blonde mane.

“Lady Yavanna.” He choked out. He was already on his knees, so it was easy to simply bow his head.

They goddess laughed and it was like the sun shone brighter, the bees buzzed faster and the plants grew healthier.

“Rise, my child.” Her voice was like sweet honey. When Bilbo got to his feet, She motioned for him to get closer.

She smelled of fruits and life.

“I, I, I...” Oh lady, where had his smooth words gone?

When She smiled, Her lips were bright red, like freshly plucked berries. “Bilbo Baggins, I knew you would eventually call. I was told so by my husband. I just decided to skip some steps.”

Bilbo hung on to every word She uttered. “Your husband? What does he have to do with this?”

When She smiled warmly again, Bilbo’s breath stuck in his throat. Watching Her was like being warmed by the sun itself and have a light breeze brush against his face.

“Come with me.” She said simply.

Bilbo did. His family’s garden seemed to open into a forest in which they entered. The trees were big and strong, birds were singing and patches of sunlight broke through the canopy of thick leaves. The path they walked on was made of soft dirt and Bilbo couldn’t help but dig his toes in it. The Lady’s footsteps, while light and soundless, seem to root into each patch of the ground She touched, like Her body naturally connected with the green around Her.

They stopped their walk in a clearing, Bilbo’s nose nervously twitching. The lady walked in the middle of it, Her face absorbing the sunlight and casting it out to Her plants.

Lady Yavanna raised a casual hand and roots grew from the ground. They twisted and turned under the deity’s approving glance.

The roots molded themselves into a bench, strands and branches interlocking but never completely obscuring the view behind them. With a flourish, Lady Yavanna sat down on Her seat and patted the place next to Her.

Bilbo slurped in a deep, deep breath and took place next to Her carefully.

She watched him and a small silence he didn’t dare break installed itself. “I know you seek to find one of my husband’s children.”

Bilbo gulped, but nodded. “His name is Thorin Oakenshield, son of Thraìn, son of Thròr. He’s my… He’s my friend.”

The lady studied him. “He is much more than a friend.”

Bilbo took time to answer. “I wish and feel so, but I could not tell you if it is the same for him.”

The birds were singing a happy little tune and the wind whistled through the trees. The rich scent of earth filled his nostrils.

“I dare say he does. You see, my husband received a similar call, though his was slightly more… anticlimactic, I suppose, than yours. Thorin, son of Thraìn, son of Thròr requested a chance to speak to you.”

Bilbo turned that thought a few times over. “How does he know I’m dead?” He finally settled for.

Lady Yavanna gave a smile that could be considered a smirk if it wasn’t sitting on the face of a deity. “You will have to ask him that.”

Her answer made butterflies flutter in Bilbo’s chest. “So I will be able to see him?”

Her head twisted to the side in contemplation, blonde curls brushing over Her shoulder. “It remains to be seen.” She granted him a smile. “You see, Bilbo, ‘hopping’ after lives isn’t something that is normally done. We’ve had a few exceptions throughout the years, but never anything quite like you two.” She licked Her berry colored lips. “You both wish to be with each other and are ready to leave your new homes forever to obtain it. But my husband and I agree that that is not an option. Neither of us wants to lose a child forever, I’m afraid. We’ve come to the conclusion that letting you, what was it, ‘hop’ between the Shire and the Halls may be the best option.”

Her speech was clear and simple, but Bilbo felt something squirm in his gut.

“You wouldn’t be here to tell me all of this if there wasn’t more to it. My Lady.”

Bilbo could literally hear Frodo berating himself for talking back to a goddess.

The lady didn’t seem to mind his prodding much, if anything, She looked delighted.

“That’s quite true. You see, letting you two change after lives will be a bit of work for us. Nothing too taxing, of course, but time that would have been spent gardening or forging will have to be dedicated to opening that door. Now, we would like to make sure the time we will take to create those doors will be worth it.”

Bilbo frowned. “How?”

Once again, She smiled that not-quite-smirk. “We have created three trials for you and Thorin to accomplish. If you pass them all, my husband and I will make those doors for you. However, if you fail but one of them, we will consider it not worth it and neither of you will get access to the other ever again in this life.”

When She spoke the last of Her words, winds seem to pick up, clouds hanging more heavily in the sky, plants seem to shrivel under Her touch and Bilbo felt an unpleasant shiver crawl down his spine.

But then She smiled and it was like nothing at all had happened, the only proof of what had taken place being a terrified Bilbo. Smaug didn’t seem scary at all in that moment.

Her bipolar attitude reminded the hobbit of some days were the sun would shine until a down poor unexpectedly happened.

“You can, of course, decide not to try at all.”

Her green eyes shone in mischief, but also something old and darker Bilbo could never hope to understand.

But Bilbo was never one to back out of a challenge.

“I will do it.”

Durin led his two descendants to an office. The back walls were covered in blue and silver drapes while their opposites held shelves filled with books and weapons of all sorts nailed in the rock. A hearth shone behind a wooden desk with a high-back chair and a warm fur casually lay atop of it.

Dwalin was the last one to enter and he closed the door behind him.

Durin walked around his desk and laid his thick palms flat on it. His blue eyes were hard and serious when they gazed at Thorin.

“What I’m about to do breaks so many rules I’ve lost count.” He started. But before he could go on with either a speech or a way to summon Mahal, Thorin disappeared from existence.

 _“Bintarg Mahal.”_ Dwalin swore.

Thorin blinked and suddenly he wasn’t in Durin’s office anymore but in a sweltering forge. There were candles lit in the four corners of the room as well as the great fire required to melt metal. Despite the candles and the burning hearth, the room was still dark, in the comfortable way forges always had been for Thorin. The room held the same sort of prohibited feeling that accompanied him whenever he stepped into Thraìn or Thròr’s offices. It was like a cloak of discomfort had settled on his shoulder and he suddenly felt a lot younger than he truly was.

The harsh sounds of a hammer banging against still hot metal drew his attention. The figure that slaved over what appeared to be a bracelet didn’t lift His head. Sparks of red hot metal flew around broad, naked shoulders smattered with freckles and red hairs barely visible in the low light. After a final hit with the hammer, the dwarf dipped the thin bracelet in a bucket of water. The metal hissed and light swam under the surface. The smith raised His new creation above His head, the newly cooled material shining with the flickering flames of the candles and the burning fire of the hearth.

Slowly, He hefted it down on the table closest to Thorin and left it to cool. He put his pliers in a bucket near with its siblings and raised His head slowly.

He had maybe half a head less than Thorin, with a bushy fiery beard tied in a complex and tight braid He’d thrown behind his shoulder. With a small flicker, He put it back and smoothed it down his leather apron. His mane, the color of burning ember, was held back with a small cord in a low ponytail.

He crossed his muscly arms over his thick chest, tattoos, hair and freckles dancing a sinuous dance on his skin.

His eyes, when they stared through Thorin, were the color of steel and just as hard. When He spoke, his voice was as hard as the rocks He came from, but as warm as the fire He used to melt metal, almost burning in its intensity.

“I know what you want to ask. I also know why you want to ask it. I have to say, not many dwarves have stood before me without bowing.”

His last remark came with a small smirk hidden by His beard.

Belatedly, Thorin realized he had stayed frozen under His Maker’s gaze. He made an aborted motion of a bow, which Mahal waved off.

“No need for that now.” His fingers, as thick as dagger handles, were dirty with ash and rough like gravel and proudly displayed thick rings. The gems on them shone slightly in the room.

“I have a proposition to make. You complete three trials: Body, Mind and Soul and I’ll let you see your hobbit. If you don’t manage it, then you won’t ever bother me in my forges again. Do I make myself clear?”

The skin of His face, already rigid, seemed to harden like stone under Thorin’s gaze.

“Yes, my Lord.” The dwarrow managed to choke out. His back was ramrod straight and sweat glistened on his skin, but he didn’t dare wipe it off in fear of appearing weak to his Maker.

His heart drummed in his chest as the deity turned His back on him with a snort. The smell of clean metal and cooling coal retreated with Him. His heavy boots thundered like landslides when He walked to His work table where the thin bracelet He had been working on before being interrupted lay.

The pad of a thumb, scarred like an unpolished jewel, caressed tenderly the swirls of the metal He had forged.

“This is for my wife.” He grunted. “I love her with everything I’ve got.”

When their eyes met again, Thorin felt very, very small, like a pebble next to a mountain. “Don’t make me regret my decision.”

Then, with the sound of an anvil crushing another object, Thorin disappeared once again to his first Trial, unaware that in another after life, a small hobbit had vanished from air with the music of windblown grass in his ears.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I wanted to make everyone understand that while Bungo did give his blessing to Bilbo, he's nervous about Thorin because propriety dictates that his gender and species are not very proper at all. And that his understanding of what it's like to love someone 'forbidden' is the reason he doesn't simply tell Bilbo that he's mad and that wanting to find Thorin is a bad idea. He's still not 100% comfortable with it, but he tries for his son. I hope it got through. 
> 
> For Yavanna and Mahal, I really tried to make them larger than life. The shapes they took are obviously not their true forms, and I tried to make their power leak through. Tell me if I managed it. As for their challenge 'do it or never see your love again', well... I'm a big fan of Greek Mythology and I liked the idea of the gods being kind of selfish in the face of mortals. I feel like it's realistic. After all, to them, hobbits and dwarves are merely ants. Sure, they're their ants, but still just a little insect. They're not bad, of course, but their view are broader than Bilbo's or Thorin's which limits itself to 'I want to see him again'.
> 
> Finally, Dwalin's swearing. The prefixe 'bin' means 'without' while 'targ' means beard. It literally means 'beardless Mahal' which is quite the insult when you think about it.
> 
> Anyways, I hope you enjoyed this read. Don't forget to leave kudos or a comment, they're always well appreciated.


	4. Body

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Thorin and Bilbo's First Trial: Body

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello hello! Sorry this took some time, I was working and I had this evening with my friends and writing kind of took the backseat... But fear not, I am back! Enjoy this nice little chapter.

Orcrist sliced straight through a goblin, cutting it in half. His victory didn’t last long because, just like a hydra with its heads, when you killed a goblin, two took its stead.

Thorin whirled, blade knifing his enemies, avoiding their sharp weapons. One adversary snarled and tried to stab him with its dagger. A step backwards saved him from being gutted, but the attacker wasn’t as lucky and its head ended up rolling on the ground. Blood spattered his grim face, but he paid no attention to it, instead ducking and plunging Orcrist in a goblin’s stomach. It gurgled and fell.

The smell of death and goblin burned his nostrils and he kept blinking in order to keep the sweat and blood away from his prickling eyes. His moist hands had a deadly grip on the handle of his sword and he could taste blood on his tongue. The clashing of metal, the screams of agony and anger and thud of bodies falling filled his ears.

His dance continued, ducking and striking keeping him alive as much as it killed his enemies. But he knew he wasn’t supposed to be here, wherever he was. He could hear Dwalin’s roars of anger and, from the corner of his eye, he could spy what might be Kìli’s arrows, but while he _knew_ his Company was around him, fighting by his side, he also _knew_ someone was missing-

Thorin’s reflexes made him back out of a strike that would have cut his head clean off, instead leaving him with a scratch on his cheek. It stung, but he ignored it.

It stung.

It _stung_.

Sting.

Bilbo!

That’s who was missing. And suddenly, just like he was convinced his Company was around, he knew Bilbo was far away from the fight.

His sword clashed against the two goblins he fought at the same time. His swiped Orcrist and sliced on goblin’s leg before crushing the pommel against the second one. It crumpled to the ground and knocked over its ally in the process giving Thorin the momentum he needed to finish them off both.

A part of him wanted to stay here and fight alongside his companions. Leaving them here could very well lead to the death of one or more of them, as the goblins were swarming them.

Another part of him trusted his Company to take care of themselves while he went to find its lost member. Here, they all had each other’s back. Bilbo was alone in a hostile territory.

The head of a goblin toppled from its shoulders and rolled to his feet. Thorin kicked it. It landed on the uncovered stomach of one of its siblings, the abomination folding itself in half with a cry. Thorin slit its throat. He stepped on its carcass to walk forward.

Something _tugged_ at his chest, like a hook in a fish. It seemed to propel him further and further away from battle.

Thorin ducked away from a javelin headed for his chest, jumped forward and slayed its bearer with a precise slice in its back.

Thorin followed his instinct, grappling forward, his filthy hair whirling in clumps around his head.

Another goblin made a lucky hit, cutting the flesh from his thigh. By the pain, Thorin knew it was a superficial wound and his attacker paid the price of his blood with its head.

The sounds of battle, while no less loud, became fewer as the King Under the Mountain fought his way through the goblins. The grim smells of death clogged his nose less than they did while he had been in the thick of it and his body was free to move more easily, as the fighters weren’t crammed like sardines anymore.

Thorin’s footwork became broader but no less precise. In fact, he was a lot more stable, as he could now spread his weight wider. Another goblin charged towards him, a sword held highin its hand. Orcrist deflected the blade to the right while Thorin’s free hand grabbed the arm holding the weapon away from his body. With a well-placed kick under his adversary’s knee, the goblin toppled on its back. Orcrist bit into the flesh of its collar bone, the blood gushing signaling its demise.

The King continued to fight his way through the waves of goblins, slaying and fatally injuring as many as his blade could hit. There, a few feet before him, the ruins of a castle stood. The entrance was tattered, but no goblins tried to claw their way inside. The remains of the fortress stood tall above them and Thorin knew, just like he’d known his Company was with him, that Bilbo was inside.

Determination to get to his fourteenth member’s side gave a new wave of power and strength to his strokes.

Orcrist left none in its wake, its graceful blade cutting own enemies without mercy. One goblin received a precise stab in the eye, slicing deep into its brains. When Thorin tugged away his sword, the eye socket was a mess, with blood spattering everywhere. Another one boldly tried to stab Thorin in the neck. The dwarf barbarically amputated his arm and abridged his suffering with a cut to the neck.

The fight continued. A gory plunge inside a chest cavity. A messy decapitation, requiring two hits to fully remove the head, the first one not killing the enemy instantly. A bloody slice straight through the neck, Orcrist momentarily getting stuck in the marrow of bone. A vertical stab across a blackened belly which left guts spilling on the ground. Another decapitation…

Thorin took no pleasure in his kills. The only being he had ever enjoyed murdering was Azog. The sick kind of joy it had brought had nothing to do with the act itself, but with the knowledge that the Defiler could never again hurt his line and make him feel the pain he had felt in Azanulbizar. Was that were he had killed the pale orc? He thought so… But there was something else, somewhere else.

Landscapes white with snow and cold with ice. Blood, sluggish and warm, fracturing the peace with its coppery smell. Death, clawing its freezing fingers to the furs of his coat and the clamminess of his skin. Spitting words of forgiveness ( _not enough, never enough_ ) with the last of his strength…

_The Eagles are coming…_

But before he could grasp the thought, it flew from his grip. Thorin was too distracted by the sudden pocket of peace amidst the battlefield to try and hold on to it.

Using the bubble of safety to gaze around, Thorin was finally able to spot the object of his search. There, also standing in a little patch of burnt earth untouched by violence stood his hobbit.

His eyes were looking around wildly, Sting held tightly in his little fist. Finally, their gaze locked and Thorin could spy his name being mouthed by Bilbo. Before either of them, could move forward, clashing sounds of blades became mute, the smell lost its dirtiness and their adversaries disappeared along with them.

Bilbo was wringing his hands. He had opened his eyes to what had once been a bedroom, with a dilapidated bed, musty covers and rotting wooden side table. Dust bunnies covered every surface available to the eye and probably crowded those unseen places even more. Through the broken windows, the hobbit could see a battlefield, filled with goblins snarling and trampled bodies. Despite their savagery the little monsters hadn’t tried once to get into what Bilbo had guessed to be some sort of abandoned castle. When he’d craned his neck out of the window, taking precaution not to stab himself in the neck, he’d seen the tall stone walls and the wide towers. It reminded him of some of Dale’s ruins, though he was mostly certain he wasn’t in the city of Men. 

Bilbo rubbed a hand over his chest. He was missing… _something_. He couldn’t quite remember what, but he was supposed to have something on his chest. Wearing it, maybe? His head throbbed as he tried to force his memories to cooperate.

At least he had Sting, he thought, fingers brushing against the scabbard in which it was sheathed.

Bilbo’s eyes darted to the loud battlefield outside. He’d been in many battles, he vaguely recalled, but he also knew if he went out, it would be… different. He wouldn’t be invisible to his foes, nor would he be standing up against one or two orcs (though he couldn’t recall why he would be standing up against orcs since he knew he had very little chance of winning a fight. Something, something…).

His hand half-heartedly brushed against his breast bone again, expecting metal. Yes, that was it! He was supposed to be wearing a metal shirt. Something very light indeed, for he was a hobbit. Something… shiny.

His mithril shirt! The one that had saved his life multiple times during the Battle of the Five Armies. The one he had gifted Frodo.

And… Thorin had been the one to give it to him.

His eyes snapped to the window. Black hair, blue eyes and blood gushing down a cut on his pale forehead. Whispers and promises uttered with a dying breath...

He couldn’t quite remember what had happened after that, but he suddenly knew Thorin was down there, fighting an army of Goblins. The Company was probably at his side, as they always were.

Unsheathing Sting, Bilbo dashed to the other side of the room where stood a big door he hadn’t managed to open when he’d woken up.

This time, though, the door opened under his plight with a loud moan of protest.

Gritting his teeth, Bilbo exited the safety of the room he’d woken up in, leaving dust bunnies behind.

His fleet slapped against the cold rock of the stairs almost noiselessly.

The sounds and smells of the battle became stronger. Blood, metal and cadavers filled his nostrils, making him gag. He regretted it immediately when he tasted it on his tongue, but he only ran through the maze of the castle faster, following the sounds of clashing blades.

The castle’s gates were in ruins, boulders of rock laying askew everywhere and blocking the path of a being incapable of climbing or too thick to squeeze through cracks. Bilbo chose the second option, prioritizing sneakiness over boldness.

He had to tighten his stomach and hold his breath, but he did manage to squeeze through and immediately dropped into a crouch.

He was one little hobbit and he couldn’t hope to take on an army by himself, even if it was made of creatures as dim as goblins. Furthermore, he didn’t know how far Thorin and the Company were and getting killed by the swarm of enemies before he reached them was simply inconceivable.

So Bilbo sneaked and slithered through fighter, mostly unseen by the goblins.

When one of them stumbled on him, Bilbo silenced its call by slitting the throat in front of him in one clean stroke. The smell was dreadful and the hobbit thanked the Lady he hadn’t wretched at the sight of a corpse since his first few kills.

As he walked forward, where he knew the Company was (it felt like a hook tugging at his heart towards Thorin) the goblins lost more and more of their focus, but became increasingly aggressive, attacking each other as much as they would a dwarf, an elf, a man or himself.

He discovered creating distraction often gave him the chance to go through crowds unseen and he started stabbing and slicing Achilles’ heels and calves.

The goblins screeched and hacked at their closest allies.

The earth underneath the sole of his feet became less rocky and ashier.

A goblin jumped on him with a cry of rage and Bilbo sliced through the air with Sting gutting it. It felt on the ground and gave a few feeble plaintive sounds before stilling. 

A few steps and another goblin tried to crack his head open with the blunt edge of a perforator. Bilbo jumped back in fright and hacked a few stabs which hit the shoulder, the side and finally the throat of his enemy. Blood splattered over his disgusted face but he continued.

The sounds of battle became louder and, far away, he could hear a roar that sounded suspiciously like Dwalin.

Heartened, Bilbo pushed forward, only stopping to remove a few fingers from an attacker when it tried to stab him with a small dagger. Sting plunged into the stomach of the creature and it fell on the ground with a gurgle. Bilbo tugged on his sword, whimpering in dismay when it stayed stuck in what he guessed was the spinal cord of his victim.

Sting was finally wrenched free after a few hysterical jerks. His sword was bloody and grimy when it caught the light once again. Bilbo raised his head. He seemed to be in a small untouched circle, the dead goblin still under his feet from when he’d stepped on it to try to free Sting. With the small boost to his height, the hobbit looked around, trying to look at where he felt the tugging lead him.

And suddenly, his eyes froze on a figure he would know everywhere.

_If more people valued home above gold…_

Broad shoulders clad in armor, a curtain of black hair and bright blue eyes. A dirty, but well known face shined like a beacon in the darkness of battle.

_This world would be a merrier place._

“Thorin.” He breathed.

But then, the world seemed to fade, fighters blending with dirt, the sky becoming one with the distant trees.

Thorin flickered and Bilbo only blinked before he disappeared with him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So... This was my first time writing a medieval fight. It's also one of my few action scenes, so any constructive critisicm is appreciated. For Thorin I really tried to make his moves easy yet effective, like a seasoned fighter's would be (I also watched a lot of sword fighting videos and I am pretty hyped for my future fencing class). For Bilbo, I tried to make him clumsier and less knowledgeable in swordfighting, as a hobbit would be. It's kind of why, when Bilbo fights, there aren't impressive moves described. Thorin fights with a style, since he's been a swordsmaster for at least a century, while Bilbo is barely a novice and just trying to survive. I hope it showed through. 
> 
> As for the boys' memories, they're kind of muddled and they don't remember why they're there. The logic behind it is Yavanna and Mahal don't want them to do it because they know, but because they *want* to. So that's that. Let me know if it's understandable. 
> 
> I hope you liked this chapter (smaller than the others, I know) and don't forget to leave kudos and comments!


	5. Mind

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Second Trial has started: Mind. This one proves to bring back painful memories for both Thorin and Bilbo.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Pfiou! Second Trial! I feel like it's pretty short for what it's about, but at the same time, there are only so many ways to describe what I was writing about. At the same time, I feel like it was just the right amount of time? Who knows, this trial could have taken them days for all we know, wrapped up as they are in their own minds... And I didn't want to drag it out too much. Overall, I'm pretty happy with it, but feel free to leave a comment if you have constructive criticism. Anways, have a nice read!

When Thorin woke up, he was on the ground and he felt _heavy_.

Any trace of discomfort disappeared, however, when he opened his eyes.

Blue gaze stuck on the most beautiful thing he had ever seen.

Now, Thorin had seen lots of things in his long life. He’d seen gory death, drawn out sickness and horrifying tortures. But he’d also seen so many beautiful things. Mountains peeked with snow, deep caves veined with gold and graceful blades, but nothing like _this_.

Its shine reflected on every surface, its rainbow of colors a pure delight for the eyes. Its delicate cut, yet strong weight he could almost feel in his palm.

The Arkenstone.

His body would have felt heavy as he crawled to his feet, if he hadn’t been concentrating solely on the jewel before him.

Slowly, he dipped down, big hand cradling the precious stone. It glided into his palm smoothly, caressing rough skin with its soft surface.

It was like silk wrapped around steel. It shone like a thousand diamonds under his eyes, reds and pinks and yellows and blues and greens and purples … Unending colors shifted under the skin of the Arkenstone and reflected the room they were in.

Fist clenching over his precious jewel (it wouldn’t do to have it slip from his grip) he looked around. He was in the treasury. _His_ treasury.

The gold seemed made especially to reflect the light from the Arkenstone. The silver was like occasional drops of rain in the clear sky that were all of his golden possessions. Unsuspected, but definitely welcomed.

Diamonds, sapphires, rubies and emeralds gave punches of color. Amethysts and lapis lazuli added a detail of richness to the painting.

But none, Thorin knew, were as precious or as important as the jewel in his hand. His eyes dropped back to it.

One scarred thumb brushed against its sparkly surface. Smooth like silk around steel.

Without quite realizing it, he sat down in a throne (had it been there before? It didn’t matter) and simply admired his birthright.

This was everything he had worked for. It was why he had worked.

It was the right to his people, his right. His heart.

No King Under the Mountain could reign without it. It was supposed to be his as it had been his grandfather’s (something churned in his stomach, but he ignored it. After all, it was normal to feel ill at ease when he thought about someone else than he holding the stone, a little voice reasoned.)

He had accomplished what he had set out to do with his Company (he could barely recall their faces, even less their names, but it didn’t matter, he had the Arkenstone, now). He could reign in peace now.

And after his death, someone would take his place. His stone.

He frowned. That didn’t seem right. He gazed at the shiny jewel.

He didn’t like the idea of his heir having the Arkenstone, though he couldn’t put his finger on _why_.

Because it was his, mumbled a voice in his head. But he shook his head.

Yes, it bothered him, but not _quite_...

Who was his heir again? His fingers clenched around the King’s Jewel as he forced his memory to give him the answer.

Blonde hair, he knew he had blonde hair. Golden threads that circled his head like a halo like… _someone_. Someone important.

He couldn’t quite put his finger on it and the frustration made him growl. He kept his eyes away from the Arkenstone.

It was so beautiful his mind scattered each time he looked at it. Rightfully so, of course. Nothing so majestic should let someone think about something else while gazing at it.

But this was important. He was King; he should know who his heir was.

He remembered… laughter. Along with the hair, his heir had a bright, unburdened laughter.

He could almost picture him. Two thin braids in his moustache, a frown when

reminded him his brother (warm brown eyes and a mischievous grin) was taller…

It started with an ‘F’.

He should know this! He raged. He should. It was his duty. He clenched his eyes shut to break the hypnotizing vision of gold reflecting the stone.

His teeth grinded against each other.

His thoughts whirled. It was on the tip of his tongue.

Annoyed, he got up and started pacing, eyes still closed, the Arkenstone still clenched in his hand.

A small knock on the floor made his eyes snap open.

He turned around (his furs were thick, thicker than he remembered liking) and his gaze fell on a small acorn.

He frowned. What was it doing here?

Slowly, as if it was a wounded animal, he approached it.

It wasn’t a real acorn, Thorin discovered. It was carved from oak wood (though he couldn’t guess why he knew what it was made of).

It was a little lumpy and the pain on the top had mostly been scratched away by time. It was clear the one that had whittled it was an apprentice of the craft, perhaps was it even their first creation (it is, whispered a soft voice in his head, one so different from the one that had talked about the Arkenstone earlier that he nearly jumped in disbelief).

Thorin took a step forward and pause. His hand clenched around the stone in his hand.

It seemed to pulse as he put another foot forward.

He was almost above the thing and some small part of him ( _the Arkenstone is yours, yours, yours, only yours_ , it whispered) wanted to crush it beneath his boot.

He almost did, but stayed his foot at the last second.

He continued to look at it. It… _intrigued_ him.

Thorin crouched, eyes still locked on the carved acorn.

Closer up, he could see that while it was lumpy, it was also very smooth, like someone had rubbed their fingers over it numerous times before.

Suddenly, Thorin wanted to touch it. He wanted to feel its softness under his rough fingers. With a careful hand, he reached out.

He hesitated momentarily; fingers poised above it, but finally grabbed it.

It was indeed, very smooth. Not like the Arkenstone’s silk over steel texture, no (had he thought that before? He couldn’t recall), but a lot more natural. Like brushing one’s finger against a delicate flower or hairless, unscarred skin…

He continued to stare at it. It really was poorly carved, but he couldn’t tear his eyes away. Something clawed at the edges of his mind.

_I’m going to plant it in my garden…_

He frowned. Something, something… He could almost grasp it.

_It’s a poor prize to take back to the Shire._

Drowning in a pool of gold, a dragon squeezing the air out of his lungs…

_In Bag End…_

A crown of crows (not ravens, that king couldn't wear ravens).

Holding a small body above the ramparts, daggling it above the ground like a puppet with its strings cut…

_You miserable rat!_

He didn’t realize he’d closed his eyes until he opened them with a gasp.

His fist was clenched over the acorn and the thought that his other hand held the Arkenstone suddenly felt dirty.

He let it fall like it had burned him (it had, it had) and toppled on the floor.

He had disappeared before he could hit the floor.

Bilbo wasn’t sure of where he was, but he knew it didn’t really matter.

The landscapes around him seemed ever changing but it didn’t spark any curiosity.

The only real thoughts he could pinpoint in his head were about the ring in his palm.

It was simple, really. Thick and gold without any ornaments or gaudy baubles on it. He liked like that.

After all, he mused, wasn’t he like his little ring? Simple, yet powerful.

 _Oh, yes_ , it seemed to whisper _, yes, yes. Simple, but oh so powerful. You’re powerful, yes. We can be powerful together…_

Bilbo smiled. He would have blushed if it had been said in flattery, but he knew his little magic ring only told the truth.

His caressed it with a finger.

It was such a nice little trinket. One that had dearly helped him during his adventure.

Oh, his adventure! Yes, he should probably get back to that. The Company would be waiting for him after all. He couldn’t have his friends waiting for him, it was quite impolite.

 _Your friends?_ The ring hissed. _They’re not your friends._

Bilbo frowned. That wasn’t a very nice thing to say. The dwarves were his friends, almost a second family.

_But they doubted you! They hated you! They let you be threatened by Oakenshield._

Oh. That was right. They had. And Thorin had almost killed him. He didn’t know why he hadn’t remembered until then. It wasn’t something you forgot easily.

He frowned in conflict.

His little magic ring had brought him so much comfort, he’d completely forgotten! How typical of him!

He huffed a laugh.

_I am your friend. I’m here for you, stay with me, we can do so much… So powerful… Yesss…_

Bilbo smiled fondly at his trinket, petting it like he would a cat.

It was so beautiful. So nice. So powerful. So… _precious_.

Yes, that was right. Precious.

The word seemed perfectly suited for such a unique magic ring. He wouldn’t have been able to succeed on the quest without it. It had helped him.

His precious little magic ring.

He caressed it again. “Maybe you’re right.” He told it. “Maybe I shouldn’t go back to them. Who knows what they would say or do to me? Or what they would say or do to you?”

His thoughts froze.

If the dwarves found the ring, they would confiscate it.

His fist clenched over the smooth metal.

He couldn’t let them have it. It was his, his, _his!_

His lips uncovered his teeth in a snarl.

Those greedy dwarves, they were sure to take it as soon as they saw it was made of gold. And Bilbo didn’t dare think what they would do when they discovered it was magic as well!

 _Keep it for themselves._ The ring told him.

Of course they would. But they had no right. _He_ had found it, it was his.

He’d riddled his precious away from that terrible goblin monster thing.

Gollum, a little voice in the back of his head informed him. It was called Gollum and it loved the precious.

How did he know that? His frown returned to his face, but it was less aggressive and more inquisitive.

Blue eyes and dark curls sparked into his mind. Of course, Frodo had told him.

He was such a scatterbrain. Forgetting his nephew!

The ring burned in his hand.

_He would steal it. The hobbit would steal it!_

Frodo?

“Of course not, my precious. Frodo isn’t like those dwarves. He would never steal from me.” He reassured it softly.

After all, what would Frodo have to do with his little trinket?

He hummed and brushed a finger over the smooth surface of the metal.

Thoughts of dark hair and blue eyes brought another person to mind.

Thorin would probably steal it, he thought in anger. He would see the golden ring and he would tear it from his hand just like he had the acorn…

Except, he frowned, he hadn’t. Had he?

He could remember the dwarf standing a few feet away…

_Show me._

But he hadn’t tried to steal it away.

_You’ve carried it all this way?_

Bilbo closed his eyes and continued to bask in the memory. Of course he’d carried the little acorn. It was from an oak. And when he would plant it…

_I’m going to plant it in my garden, in Bag End._

He would watch it grow; watch it become a strong tree so he would always be protected by an oak. So he always would have an _Oakenshield_.

Frodo would have such a protection too. He would come back home, still a faunt, with scrapped knees and Bilbo would gather him in his arms and clean his wound under the shade of leaves.

 _Oaks are the strongest trees,_ he would say. _And if you ever need protection, know that you can always come here. Good or bad, this tree will always protect you._

_What about other oaks, Uncle Bilbo?_

_Well, it takes a lot to earn the trust of an oak. But once you have it, it is ever lasting and no matter what you, you will always have his protection._

_How do you know?_

_An oak himself told me. He said, ‘_ I wish to part to you in friendship…’ His breath would hitch. _And he said_ ‘Plant your trees, watch them grow…’ Here, he would pause, close his eyes, before finishing. _And I did._

_That’s silly, Uncle Bilbo! Trees don’t talk!_

_They don’t, do they?_

His Frodo, innocent and young.

_You’re not in love with the Shire anymore, are you?_

Frodo had changed. He wasn’t the hobbit Bilbo had raised. Why was it?

Why did his nephew miss a finger? Why was he missing his light?

Bilbo clenched his fist in annoyance and the edge of the ring dug into his skin.

The ring.

The Ring.

Slowly, Bilbo opened his palm, half expecting its content to jump at him.

It didn’t, of course, but the snarl in his head was answer enough.

He fell back in surprise, the object flying through the air. He didn’t try to catch it, letting fall heavily on the ground before him.

There, alone and silent, it seemed harmless, like the first time he had seen it in Gollum’s cave.

His throat was dry and he swallowed in an effort to wet it. It clicked loudly in the silence.

Even then, Bilbo had the urge to pick it up and run with it.

_Just take it, take it, take it, take it!_

He balled his hands into fists and rose to his feet, keeping his eyes on it.

_So precious… yours…_

Bilbo reared back in disgust at the voice, at the memory of Gollum and, with strength he didn’t know he possessed, he closed his eyes to the ring, shutting it out of his head and sight.

Before any more decisions could be made, his thoughts dissolved and he lost consciousness, unaware of his fading body. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, what did you think? Was I too hasty in their break through of the Ring/gold sickness? As I said, they could have been obsessed for days for all we (I) know. I just decided to not make it take *you* days to read. As I said earlier, I like the final product and I really wanted them to drag themselves out not just by thinking about the other. Thorin and Bilbo have nephews they love as their own and, in my opinion, those three should play an important part in their uncles' 'detox'. 
> 
> Anyways, I hope you enjoyed your read! Please leave kudos and comments, they really make my day!


	6. Soul

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The third and last trial has started for Bilbo and Thorin. They both have to fight against the worst of themselves in order to find their way to each other.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello! I'm not dead! I know, I know, it took really long to get out. Sorry.
> 
> I have two reasons. First is that this chapter is reeeeeaally long. According to my word doc, it's half the whole story, to give you an idea. 
> 
> The second reason is that I actually had an editor for this chapter. It's the great, the magnificent, the supeeerb Scribe of the Fey! She sadly wasn't able to finish it due to personal reasons, but she was a great help for what she did and what she taught me. Be sure to give her your love, she deserves it! Thank you again, Fey.
> 
> That's all for my excuses. Enjoy this chapter, the last one is coming soon!

Bilbo couldn’t quite describe the gradual awareness as waking up. He felt sluggish and disoriented, unsure of where he was or what he was doing there.Consciousness flooded the hobbits’s brain gradually and he sluggishly realised he was aware of more and more things around him. Surprisingly, the first thing that came to him was touch. The ground beneath the soles of his feet was hard, slightly uneven and cold. Most of all, it was damp, like water had been poured onto it and never properly dried. His toes curled in displeasure on the wet rock he was standing on. Around him, a thick coat of humidity clung to his skin and hair. A thin layer of water built up on the strands and he could feel the second curling around his ears. Beyond that, his mouth felt like it was full, but he couldn’t taste anything. 

He felt the skin between his eyebrows bunch up in confusion. There was something floating at the edge of his mind and he tried to grasp it curiously. It felt like trying to grab water in his hands; it kept sliding between them.He was missing something...

The second thing that came into existence for him was the smell. Wherever he was, it smelled incredibly musty and damp, like Farmer Maggot’s scarcely used basement. His nose wrinkled in disgust and his eyes watered at how strong it was. A hint of fish tang was added to the already unsavory mix as well as the subtle, but definitely present moss and mold submerged in swampy water odor. The pungent smell alone made him long for the green hills that barely brushed against his mind. 

Directly after smell, came taste. How Bilbo wished it hadn’t. He could have lived a lifetime without knowing what rotten fish felt like on his tongue, or how his throat would constrict in protest as he seemingly tried to swallow down old soaked moss. 

The fourth sense which returned to him was a lot more welcome than the previous offender. His ears twitched slightly as they picked up the slight murmur of mostly still water and the soft _plop_ of singular droplets as they fell without cadence from small rivulettes in the stone and his loud breathing The space was otherwise silent. He briefly wondered if his voice would echo if he spoke aloud. He decided not to test his theory and risk breaking the stillness around him.

When he opened his eyes (or maybe they’d always been open, he didn’t know), they were met with a deep cave, a large pool of water eating at the humidity reflecting, moss covered rock. The only light came from the occasional sparkly rock and the lake’s reflective surface. It uncomfortably reminded him of Gollum’s cave, though this place didn’t carry the mental stench of dark magic, which had taken him years to identify.

Bilbo blinked.

And suddenly, he remembered everything. The years he’s spent in his smial, with and without Frodo, the Undying Lands, Lady Yavanna and then... His breathing hitched. Thorin. The trials he’d willingly endured for Thorin and his blue eyes, straight back and severe frown. Had he succeeded? He recalled the lonely castle, his mad dash on the battlefield where he’d looked for Thorin. Thorin, who had been whirling amongst grappling goblins, slaying them under the sure strokes of his blade. Thorin, whom he’d only gotten a glimpse of before he’d disappeared. And then the second trial… He hadn’t really broken out of the Ring’s enthrall… He’d had a moment of clarity, but he’d had many over the years. Would the Valar consider it enough? The thought that they might not made him want to puke. Never seeing Thorin again… After they’d been _so_ close…The thought he wouldn’t see him again after so long because of that stupid, stupid Ring was like a knife in the gut.

No, if he hadn’t succeeded, he would probably be back in the Shire, not here in a damp cave.

 _Maybe this is a punishment for asking for things that I shouldn’t have._ A little voice muttered. _Maybe They deliberately put you in a place they knew you would hate to teach you a lesson._

Bilbo liberally told it to shut up because such insight was more than unneeded. It was also uncalled for.

Breathe, he told himself, before immediately regretting it as the ambient odor filtered in his nostrils. He mostly ignored it. Observe, think and then draw conclusions. Not the other around.

Bilbo drew a small circle and looked around. The place really did look like Gollum’s cave, he thought with distaste, his nose scrunched up.

On one side, he discovered, the cave seemed to lighten up and the air was less musty. He was about to take towards what he could only guess was the exit, when a familiar voice stopped him.

“I wouldn’t do that if I were you, Bilbo Baggins.” It said from behind him.

Bilbo whirled around, now facing the darker and smellier side of the cave that seemed to become darker and darker.

“Gandalf?” He asked when he couldn’t see the man.

“I’m right here, my dear Bilbo.”

Once again, the voice came from behind. The hobbit was about to turn around again, when his friend spoke again.

“If you turn around you will fail your third trial.” He intoned.

That made him freeze faster than anything else.

“What?” He choked intelligently. 

“You see,” Gandalf started. “The third trial is a bit different than the other two. And if you want to succeed, you can’t turn around.”

Bilbo stayed silent a moment, waiting to see if Gandalf would add something. “That’s it?”

“That’s it.”

The hobbit frowned. It seemed too easy.

“We should start walking. This journey will already be long enough, no sense in prolonging it.”

Bilbo glared at the side of the cave he was facing. It looked like it went deeper and deeper under the earth.

“I’m guessing this is the way forward.” He confirmed surly.

Gandalf’s chuckle was enough of an answer.

Bilbo uneasily shuffled towards the darker path, meanwhile mourning the one that seemingly led outside.

He took a couple of steps before realizing he couldn’t hear his old friend behind him.

“Aren’t you coming?” The idea that he would have to confront the cave alone sat uncomfortably in his chest.

“No, no. I’m following you. You simply can’t hear me.”

“Reassuring.” He deadpanned dryly.

Gandalf laughed again.

Bilbo and the silent wizard behind him left the open-ish area the cavern had granted them and instead proceeded to enter a tight hallway, barely large enough to fit Bilbo (his shoulders regularly brushed against the rock) and only so tall that he wouldn’t hit his head every step (some flyaway hair caressed the rough surface occasionally).

His poor tongue felt like it had been submerged in still water and Bilbo mourned his nostrils. Surely, they would never properly work again. Too much abuse on the poor things. 

“How aren't you hitting yourself every two steps?” The hobbit questioned. Anything at this point to forget the smells and tastes and sounds. 

“Maybe I’m crouched down.”

“No, you’re not.”

Gandalf chuckled. “No, I’m not.”

Bilbo huffed, deeply annoyed. The cold seeping into his bones and the moisture wetting his clothes and skin didn’t help his thin patience.

“So what are you, some sort of guide?” He irritably inquired.

“Considering you’re the one doing the guiding, I’d say it’s the other way around.”

Bilbo stopped himself from turning around and treating the wizard to a scorching glare by gritting his teeth and regretting the decision of opening his mouth in the musty passage.

Thankfully, Gandalf seemed to feel his annoyance (or maybe he heard his nose twitch, who knew?) and answered the question.

“I suppose you could call me a guide, yes. I’m here to explain to you the rules of this third trial and to answer any questions you might have.”

“Any?”

Bilbo could easily imagine the twinkling eyes and proud smile that lit up the wizard’s face at the inquiry.

“Most questions.” He nevertheless amended.

“Can I start asking now?”

A soft hum answered him. “I suppose you should.”

Already feeling a little calmer, Bilbo did exactly that.

“What’s this third trial about?”

There was a small silence when the hobbit thought Gandalf was thinking about the answer.

Finally, he started explaining, though a little hesitantly. “Lady Yavanna may have been the designer of the Body and the Mind trial, but not so for the third,” replied Gandalf cryptically. . “And just how she peered into your heart and gave you challenges to prove your love and loyalty to Thorin, so has Mahal. He has seen into your very soul and found something he wishes you to rid yourself of before meeting his son. That is the third challenge. Should you fail, you shall never see Thorin again.”

Bilbo frowned. “And what did he find?”

“I’m afraid I can’t say.”

Bilbo’s nose twitched as he sidestepped a pointy rock he certainly wouldn’t like to stumble on.

“Can’t or won’t?” He pushed.

Gandalf hummed again. “Does it really matter?” No, it didn’t. But Bilbo wasn’t about to tell the wizard that.

“And what will happen now? I walk through a dark cave and get rid of whatever _it_ is?”

“Well…” The old man cleared his throat. “After me, you’ll meet two people that will give you the task of getting rid of _it_ , as you aptly say, difficult. If both you and Thorin win this third trial, you’ll both see each other again.”

“And Thorin is undergoing a similar challenge?” He asked to clarify his suspicion.

“Yes. Although Yavanna was the one to design his just as Mahal designed yours. She, too, saw something she wanted Thorin rid himself of before meeting you again.”

Bilbo mulled this over before once again asking a question. He figured he should make the most of it in case his old friend disappeared. “And why can’t I turn around?”

“There could be many reasons,” Gandalf replied. “Perhaps it is symbolic: Thorin heralds from stone itself, so perhaps by turning your back on the challenge, you turn your back on him. Perhaps there is danger, and it is a warning to you not to turn your back on what Mahal wishes you to confront. Or it could be that they wish you to move forward and leave the past behind.” The wizard chuckled slightly. “Or they are impatient and figure you would move faster if you had no other choice. Really, who can comprehend the whims of the Valar?”

Bilbo may have muttered an unsavory curse in a low voice as he almost folded himself in half to continue to walk forward despite the lowering rock above his head. Nausea sauntered in his gut at the proximity between his taste buds and the ground.

Thankfully, it only stayed that low for a few feet and he could stand back up after he had made it through.

As he got deeper and deeper into the cave, the smells became stronger and he grimaced. To distract himself, he asked another question.

“What if I stumble over something and walk a few steps backwards?”

“I don’t think Mahal will punish you for clumsiness.” Gandalf reassured helpfully.

“What if I fall down and turn around in my momentum?”

“Don’t push you luck, Bilbo Baggins.” And although the words were stern, the hobbit could easily imagine the light of approval and fondness in the wizard’s eyes. Hearing the chuckle he’d had to swallow before answering had only further confirmed.

The next silence was only interrupted by Bilbo’s awkward shuffling, slightly deeper breathing and the constant drip of water.

“You’re aren’t really Gandalf, are you?” The inquiry had been swimming around his brain, but he’d only now plucked the courage to ask.

“How do you figure?” At least he didn’t seem offended.

“Gandalf would never answer my questions so clearly and so freely.”

Laughter rang around them, reverberating from the stone. “I suppose.” He answered mysteriously.

They continued their tenebrous walk through the moist cavern at a calm pace. Bilbo had to sidestep many rocks in the way and almost fell flat on his face when he slipped on wet rock and fungus once or twice. His feet were now soaked from the few times he’d been forced to walk directly into a puddle.

Gandalf was still completely silent behind him, so much so that he’d tried starting a conversation more than once just to make sure he was still there.

The cave suddenly had a drop, with scarcely carved stairs and that was when Gandalf spoke without prompting for the first time since he’d warned Bilbo not to turn around in the beginning.

“I believe this is where I leave you.”

Bilbo jumped. He didn’t get to say something, because the wizard was speaking again.

“Remember what I told you. _Don’t_ turn around. In _any_ way.”

The meaning was clear: don’t retrace your steps literally or figuratively.

A deep breath which stunk of mold and too still water entered his lungs before he spoke again. “Thank you Gandalf.”

When no answer came, Bilbo nodded once, twice to himself before descending in the deeper darkness of the cave.

Coming to was like slowly waking up from a deep sleep haunted by nightmares, Thorin thought.

The first thing he was aware of was the soft and crinkly ground under his boots and the breeze against slightly sweaty skin.

The second was the smell of trees and dirt and all kinds of greenery he couldn’t hope to name.

Third was taste, which made him feel like he’d taken a tumble in the grass only to end up eating a pine tree’s branch in the fall. Stings included.

Then, it was sound. Or lack of it. The wind still whipping his cheeks didn’t make a sound. There were no birds singing, tiny animals fluttering or trees cracking. Everything was utterly…still.

When he was able to see, such abnormality became clear. He was indeed in a forest, but it wasn’t the kind he’d passed through many times during his life. Creepily enough, it reminded him of Mirkwood. It smelled and felt and tasted like forest. But it was too silent and too… dead, to be anything else than _lacking_.

It was the only word he could think of to describe it. Dead wasn’t right, because the trees still grow and some animals still lived there (Thorin remembered those horrid spiders only too well) but it _lacked_ true life. You could hear it. You could see it in the twisted bark on the trees and the absence of real leaves and the darkness that seeped through everything.

Mostly, though. You could feel it. As the forest grew darker and the trees grew closer, Thorin could feel in his heart and soul the wrongness of the place. The instinctive knowledge that places were safe or at the very least natural had been tilted on its axis and laid as an askew mess somewhere in his throat. Continuing forward would worsen the sentiment, he knew. 

The sun beating down his back let him know in no uncertain term that the darkness was still escapable.

He was about to turn around when a voice he only knew too well told him: “Really wouldn’t recommend turning around right now. At least until you understand what it means.”

Thorin froze. “Frerin? What are you doing here?”

Wherever here was. Probably the third trial Mahal had talked about.

Oh. Now he remembered. He could recall a princeling’s life and a pauper’s one. He remembered a fool’s quest. His mind was mostly filled with one little hobbit he hadn’t had the pleasure to see in 80 years. A little being with a heart softer than any fur and a spine forged from mithril. His One, for whom he had embarked on another mission only the worst cretin would dare think he could succeed. But Bilbo had been worth it. Seeing his eyes shine one more time would be worth everything Mahal could throw his way, even fighting against an army of Goblins or once again fighting the gold-sickness. Especially fighting the gold-sickness. 

His brother ignored him. Typical. “I mean, you could probably do a little pirouette and still be fine, but what’s the point with playing with fire, you know?”

Thorin frowned at that. “So what? My last trial is to not turn around?” He deadpanned.

He could easily imagine Frerin’s casual shrug at his inquiry. “Yeah, maybe, what do I know? I’m just the messenger. Or maybe the guide is more appropriate. I wouldn’t know, it’s my first time doing this. But anyways, on we go!”

When Thorin didn’t move, his younger brother let out a put upon sigh, like a parent with a particularly recalcitrant child. Never mind the fact that Thorin had mostly played the part of father figure to a forever child-like Frerin and that sigh was one he had reserved for his youngest sibling or, years later, his nephews.

“You continue to walk the scary path in the scary forest without turning around. If you manage that, you’ll get your Halfling.”

“Hobbit.” Thorin immediately corrected.

“Hobbit, whatever.” His brother amended with what Thorin imagined would be a useless hand gesture.

Thorin grumbled, but he did start walking towards the forest, entering it and immediately regretting it as a slimy feeling settled over his stomach. After a few paces, he realized he wasn’t hearing his brother behind him.

“Aren’t you coming?” He asked, raising his voice.

“Wow, no need to shout, Thor!”

Frerin’s voice, which he’d expected a few feet behind, was actually quite close. Like he was directly behind him.

He almost turned around, but stopped himself at the last moment.

His frown deepened into ‘scowling territory’ as Dìs, Balin, Dwalin and his mother called it. Fìli, Kìli and Frerin usually called his ‘scowly sight’. Other variants included ‘frowny face’ and ‘meany mug’.

“Then how come I can’t hear you?” He spit, more than a little annoyed, though not at his brother. Not really.

Frerin, as always, was impervious to his brother’s temper. “Maybe you’re becoming deaf in your old age.” He replied cheekily.

“Frerin.” He growled, his angry footsteps taking him (them) deeper into the forest.

“Alright, alright, I’ll tell you.” And while his remark still seemed to glide off him like water off a duck, he did seem a little more serious.

“I’m your sort of… guide I guess.”

“You already said that.” Thorin interrupted.

Frerin huffed. “Will you let me finish? Mahal, it’s a wonder you get anything done with your kind of patience!”

Thorin didn’t bother telling him that, out of the two, Frerin was even more impatient than him.

“Anyways, I’m supposed to tell you the rules and how all of this,” It was easy to picture his younger brother waving a hand around in an imprecise gesture. “Is supposed to go down. Also, I should probably answer your questions if you have some. I think. I wasn’t listening very well when Lady Yavanna was talking.”

Thorin rolled his eyes so hard, he considered himself lucky they didn’t get stuck in his skull.

“Start explaining.” He prompted, a little moodily.

Branched cracking under the weight of his boots and his breathing were the only sounds as Frerin thought about his answer. It was strange and wholly unwelcome. Not just the forest’s regular stillness, but his youngest sibling not making a sound. Frerin was always loud and buoyant. It was something Fìli and especially Kìli had inherited (despite having never met him in life) and not hearing his clumsy footsteps and obnoxious walking (taking him hunting had been a terrible mistake he hadn’t made twice) was unnerving.

“Well, see, the two first trials, whatever they were…”

“Body and Mind.” Thorin remembered his Maker telling him.

“Yeah, that. So they were made by Mahal himself, right? But this guy? No, no, not this puppy. Lady Yavanna made this one by going soul searching on your ass and finding one of your many flaws and deciding ‘you know what, that one needs to go.". And she made this. And now you need to get rid of this mortal flaw to be able to find true love. I think.”

Let it never be said Thorin wasn’t fluent in the Frerin language. Lady Yavanna made the third trial, he needed to let go of _something_ she didn’t approve of in order to get Bilbo. Simple enough, when Frerin wasn’t the one doing the explanation.

Once again, Thorin was reminded that his brother would have been an excellent politician with his many pretty words to recap something very simple and to the point.

“And then, like, you have to meet two people that will make your task very difficult for no reason other than to entertain immortal deities, I guess.”

Stopping his cadet’s rambling, Thorin asked a question.

“Why the ‘no turning around’ rule?”

Frerin shrugged in Thorin’s mind’s eye.

“Hell if I know. Funsies?”

Unclear explanation out of the way, the dwarf tried again.

“Do I get to know what flaw I should fight? Or who I’ll meet?”

“Nah, sorry, brother. I was specifically told I couldn’t tell you important information like that.”

Thorin gave a low sigh, momentarily focusing on the precocious terrain under his feet. It was like the forest itself was trying to make him fall, with roots and branches rising off the ground to try and twirl around his ankles.

He continued walking forward, doing his best to ignore the darkness that seeped more and more around him and the trees that grew closer and darker.

Maybe fifteen minutes into their trek, Frerin began to hum under his breath.

It was a light song about drinking and burying one’s face into a lass’ ‘beard’.

After a small snort and a shaking of his head (and Frerin’s burst of laughter before he went back to singing) Thorin started humming lowly with his brother, his dark voice bringing a darker tint to the happy-go-lucky song and contrasting with his brother’s higher pitch.

The walk through the dank woods was becoming almost bearable until Thorin heard his brother make one of those popping sounds with his tongue and cheeks that irritated him to no end and that he’d taught his nephews especially to irritate him.

“I think, brother mine, this is where I have to leave you.” He said sadly.

Thorin curled his hands into fists and stopped himself from turning around once again. This was going to be especially painful.

“Is it?”

“I’m afraid so…”

Thorin waited for another moment before asking the last question he had.

“You’re not really Frerin, are you?”

There was a bark of joyous laughter behind him.

“I never dreamed of fooling you.”

After that, the silent took over once again and Thorin knew he was once again alone. Though for how long, he wouldn’t be able to tell.

Bilbo walked maybe half a mile before the silence became too much to bear and he softly broke into song, making sure to keep his voice low.

He didn’t think anything would attack him, but he still wouldn’t take any chances when he was alone in a tight cavernous corridor.

_Roads go ever ever on,_

_Over rock and under tree,_

_By caves where never sun had shone,_

Here, he chuckled ironically, before continuing softly. His intake of breath barely stung his numb tongue. 

_By streams that never find the sea;_

_Over snow by winter sown,_

_And through the merry flowers of June,_

_Over grass and over stone,_

_And under mountains of the moon._

He momentarily stopped singing to give his full attention to the boulder stuck in the middle of his way. He had to squeeze in between it and the cold stone of the wall, watching his feet on the other side where puddles of water seemed to swallow the darkness.

After his safe passage he returned to his murmuring.

_Roads go ever ever on,_

_Under cloud and under star,_

_Yet feet that wandering have gone,_

_Turn at last to home afar,_

_Eyes that fire and sword have seen,_

_And horror in the halls of stone,_

He sent a wary glance at said walls, mind far away with a gold sick king in another time.

_Look at last on meadows green,_

Even he could pick up on the longing in his voice at the line.

_And trees and hills they long have known._

He’d barely finished his little song when a voice perked behind him.

“That’s lovely, honey.”

Bilbo didn’t jump and hit his head against the stone ceiling with an undignified squeak. He didn’t.

Still, he couldn’t deny his hand went directly to his absent scabbard and that some part of him wanted nothing more than to turn around.

“Don’t be like that, my flower. It’s just me.” His mother said with a chuckle.

Bilbo had to brace himself against the wall and tell his jumping heart to _calm down, sweet Eru._

“Of all people I wasn’t expecting _you_ , Ma.”

Her crystalline laugh filled the tiny space around them and Bilbo immediately felt safer.

“I know. I know you probably expected someone else, but what can you do?”

Bilbo’s nose twitched and he grumbled. His taste buds may have been numb, but his nostrils still burnt through each intake of breath. 

“Don’t be like that, ma.” He told her. “I’m glad it’s you. I don’t even know what I’m supposed to be doing. What I’m supposed to fix.”

Belladonna hummed softly behind him. “No, I don’t suppose you would. But do tell me about that song of yours. Where did you get the inspiration?”

And just like that, Bilbo felt his shoulders relax.

He told her, quiet words filling the cave they (he) were walking in. He found the words on where and how he had composed it. How tears had stained his cheeks as he’d sang it for the first time when he’d left Rivendell after his adventure. He explained that it was the only song that had managed to calm Frodo down after his night terrors the next few years after Primula and Drogo’s death. Lastly, he whispered about the times he’d gone to Bungo and her small plot to let the notes fill the air around with the longing of adventure and the people you shared it with. 

Finally, he stopped talking.

The descent in the cave became a little more abrupt, so he focused on that instead of his mother’s silence.

“Bilbo.” She said softly. “I never held you responsible, you know…”

The hobbit froze, fingers poised over an uneven rock.

“Not once, did I think what happened that winter was your fault. You couldn’t have done anything. It wasn’t you.”

Bilbo gritted his teeth and moved again, letting his hand slip and his feet fall back on the cold ground.

“Ma, I don’t want to talk about it.” He told her with a brittle voice.

“But we do! We have to talk about it, Bilbo! You hold yourself responsible for something that wasn’t your fault. You think Bungo and I’s death is on you when it most surely isn’t.” Belladonna exclaimed heatedly.

And Bilbo suddenly understood what Gandalf had meant when he’d said the people he’d meet would make it hard.

In all honesty, if Belladonna had yelled at him and told him in vitriolic words that her and his father’s death during the Fell Winter was his entire fault, he would have found it easier to hear. He’d already convinced himself it was the case, what would his mother’s opinion change to that? Of course, it would have hurt, but not as much as being told it _wasn’t_ his fault.

There truly was something to be said about killing with kindness.

“Ma…” But he never got to finish his sentence.

“Bilbo, flower, you have to let this guilt go. We decided to go out. There was nothing you could have done.”

Her soft spoken voice, made saccharine with sweetness and just a hint of pity made Bilbo’s blood boil and he wanted nothing more than to turn around and tell her he didn’t want whatever she was trying to offer.

Instead, he clenched his fists and made himself breathe. He regretted it. 

“Mother, I believe we remember that winter quite differently.” It was as much as he would say on the matter, he told himself sternly.

But Belladonna kept yapping about responsibility behind him and he snapped.

“It was my fault you left. Mine and mine alone. You left to get me medicine, because I’d been thoughtless enough to play when it rained without an ounce of protection. You told me not to, but I didn’t listen and got sick. And because of that, I was sick all winter. You were so worried you made yourself leave our smial and you died out there! Dad was there to get me through the winter, but as soon as spring showed the tip of its nose, fading took him. It took him because you weren’t there. And you weren’t there because of me!”

Bilbo realized he was probably breathing too heavily. He could feel his heartstrings tugging and he felt like lead was dragging him down by the shoulders. It was the abhorrent smell that pricked his eyes, the hobbit forced himself to believe. 

“My flower,” his mother whispered. “As much as you may have influenced my decision, _I_ was the one who decided to leave the safety of our smial. Not anyone else. Not Bungo and certainly not you. It was my decision, flower. Just like it was your decision to leave home for an adventure. If you hadn’t come back, would you have blamed anyone other than yourself?”

Her question was rhetorical, of course, but Bilbo felt a small voice deep in the strung up mess of his heart answer ‘no’.

And just like that, it was like a weight he hadn’t realized he’d been holding was deposited. Or maybe it was flung ten feet away. One last effort that made his chest heave and tears unsettle his vision and then he was free.

“Ma?” He murmured, like a child frightened of shadows at night. She didn’t answer (had probably already left) but he still felt her answer in the gentle wind that caressed his cheek like a loving hand.

Surprised, he raised his head. The path before him seemed to ascend up. Barely, of course, but the air, less stuffy and the change of light from pitch black to dark grey was better than any rolling hills at the moment.

With a determined sniff, Bilbo whipped his cheeks and walked forward, a new spring in his step.

Thorin was cursing up a storm about treacherous roots and sticking moss when a voice, clear as bell, said in a snob voice: “I should have known you _dwarves_ couldn’t appreciate the true nature to its full potential.”

Thorin swore in surprise and clenched his fist around thin air and swore again at the lack of weapon on his back.

“Thranduil.” He growled and stopped himself from adding another expletive at the end of the name.

A haughty sniff came from behind (and by Mahal, did he hate having his back to that traitor) and an answer quickly followed.

“Thorin Oakenshield. We disappointingly meet again. I had thought death would keep you out of my sight.”

The dwarf gritted his teeth so hard; he could hear the noise reverberating in his head.

“Always happy to make your life a misery, Thranduil.” He spat angrily.

Branches were crunched under his boots and Thorin made sure to make as much noise as possible to irritate his visitor. The stony silence that met him was a bitter enjoyment and he grinned darkly.

“Got nothing else to say?”

“Oh, I’ve got quite a lot to say, but I’m not sure it simply wouldn’t enter one ear and leave through the other.” The elf hissed venomously. “After all, we can’t expect much from _you_.”

That stopped Thorin in his angry tracks. “Says the _traitor_.”

Thranduil broke into a cold laugh. “You’re no better than me. Betraying the man of LakeTown, refusing to give me what is rightfully mine and breaking the word your little Halfling vouched himself for. Oh, and that’s not even mentioning how you dangled the poor thing above your rampart like a savage.”

As the elven king enumerated his sins, there was no satisfaction in his voice. Just a cold, inexcusable, _unescapable_ , truth.

His knuckles cracked in fists and Thorin was clenching his jaw until his vision dizzied. 

He didn’t deny it. There was nothing to deny in what Thranduil had said.

Everything in him was begging him to turn around and just… hit the elf. Hit until he couldn’t keep up that glamour of his. Hit until Thranduil couldn’t see straight. Hit until _he_ couldn’t see straight.

Feel his knuckles splitting on hard bone, feel skin breaking under each plow, and feel blood gushing between his clenched fingers. 

But in order to do that, he would have to turn around. And turning around, Thorin knew, meant abandoning Bilbo.

 _Maybe it would be better for him if you never met again._ A little voice whispered. _Maybe it would be better for him if he was never in your presence again._

He couldn’t deny the truth, the little voice had spoken just as much as he couldn’t deny the honesty in Thranduil’s words, but he’d always considered himself selfish.

He wanted to see Bilbo again. He needed to see him one last time just like he needed air.

So, he settled for the next best thing and drove his fist into the closest tree with a shout of rage.

The elf behind him didn’t make a sound as he let his frustration out on the closest greenery. Nothing in that Mahal forsaken forest made any fucking sound apart from him. 

It took a certain time before Thorin’s vision cleared of the red filter and for his knuckles to hurt enough for him to stop abusing them against hard tree bark.

He whipped the blood on his tunic and continued walking, ashamed of his behavior. He knew how to control himself better than this; he’d been bred to not react to barbs, as would any king. Thranduil just knew which buttons to push. 

The silence that grew was uneasy and tension filled, which made his muscles bunch up even more. His shoulders almost touched his ears and he could feel his biceps shaking slightly under the effort.

When Thranduil spoke next, his voice was soft, like he was talking to himself. “Isn’t all of this useless? We’re like children, squabbling for the brightest toy when wars are being fought. Truly, I never thought this would be who I would become.”

And Thorin hated him. He hated him because what he’d said sounded truer than his harsh words.

The King Under the Mountain (but he’d never really earned that title, had he?) let his shoulders drop. The elf had let his people down hundreds of years ago. He’d repaid the favor by abusing his word and power, gold-sick as he was.

But he’d spoken with the more recently deceased. Dìs had whispered of how their people had all but forgotten the tale of an ill Thorin and of how the elves of Greenwood were remembered as their allies in the Battle of the Five Armies.

People had forgiven and forgotten. He’d heard the stories (fabulations?) of the young lad Gimli, Gloìn’s own son who’d supposedly forged a friendship with Prince Legolas.

Thorin didn’t think he could ever forget. The image of his people, burnt by fire, scared by thunder that reminded them of dragons, cold from the frozen ground and too thin from the cruel lack of food would always haunt him. But maybe, just maybe, he could _let go_ of the pure hatred he carried for Thranduil and all of the elves.

He didn’t hold hope that the elven king would ever be courteous (and he didn’t think _he_ would) and to forgive was too strong of a word to use. But letting go of anger and hate… This he could do, he thought.

Thorin straightened his back and spoke clearly, if roughly. He didn’t say much, didn’t waste time on fancy, empty words. But what he said meant more than a thousand words and he knew Thranduil would catch the subtlety behind them.

“You’re right.”

There was no answer, but he’d never expected one.

Bilbo was sure that, given enough time, he would have gone crazy in this underground cave. It wasn’t a maze, far from it, but there was truly maddening about a continually straight path that mostly always looked the same.

It was like he was walking, but never advancing, his steps never bringing him forward. So yes, it was maddening. At least the air wasn’t as stuffy as it had been when he’d talked with his mom or with Gandalf. It still wasn’t ideal, but he comforted himself with the knowledge that, according to Gandalf, he only had one more person to meet, more guilt to let go of, before he would be out of this dreadful cave. He let himself daydream of rediscovering sensations on his tongue, of intaking a breath of air without mildly regretting it, of walking on dry, warm ground and of his eyes adjusting to sunshine and brightness. 

He walked for a long while before a voice interrupted his thoughts.

“Hello Uncle Bilbo.”

Bilbo’s old heart shriveled in his breast. His boy, his Frodo…

“You better not be dead, Frodo Baggins!” He hissed, trying to hide the tears clogging his throat.

Bright laughter was his answer and his heart squeezed again. He hadn’t heard his nephew laugh like that since before he’d left to destroy the Ring in Mordor.

“No, Uncle, not yet; I think I still have a few years left in me.”

Bilbo frowned very unhappily. “I think more than a few years. I think at the very least five decades.”

Frodo laughed again and a tear squeezed out of the older hobbit’s eye along with a bittersweet smile. Oh, how he had missed his young, happy Frodo!

A sad sigh broke him from his reverie. “Uncle Bilbo, that’s why I’m here,” He said softly. “I’m here to help you let you go of all that guilt.”

Bilbo sniffled loudly. “I thought you were supposed to make things difficult?” He mumbled, thinking about Gandalf’s words and his mother’s actions.

Frodo chuckled. “I guess. But when have I listened to authority.”

A wet laugh escaped him. “You listened to me.”

“You’re not really an authority. You never were, Uncle Bilbo.”

Bilbo thought about that. He couldn’t exactly deny the statement. He’d gotten in as much trouble (according to certain hobbits) as a younger Frodo and he had gotten the fawn out of many pickles that should have normally left him punished. The Sackville-Baggins always used to say his boy would become a wild delinquent.

Bilbo thought he had become quite the upstanding hobbit. He also thought he brought just the right amount of trouble. The kind that carried a magic evil Ring through Mordor to throw it into a volcano.

Bilbo sighed explosively. It seemed like it was all he was doing lately. Sighing about his and his nephew’s sad realities. Where had the fiery hobbit that _acted_ when faced with problems gone?

Probably melted into a puddle of shame after he’d learned what he’d brought on his boy.

“Uncle Bilbo… I chose to bear the Ring. You have nothing to do with it.”

“Of course, I only thoughtlessly brought the Ring into your life, gave it to you with all of Bag End and was too weak to get rid of it myself, basically forcing you to do it!” He snapped back sarcastically.

Silence answered him and Bilbo suddenly felt very, very old. “Frodo, lad? I’m sorry…”

He was apologizing for so much, he thought morosely. For snapping at Frodo, for not being a good enough uncle and parent to him, for leaving him to deal with his mess, for bringing that blasted Ring into his young life…

“I won’t say you have nothing to apologize for. I still haven’t forgiven you for taking away the cookies after I’d smeared mud over Lobelia’s ugly dress that one time when I was young. Even if you cave me custard after that. I seriously thought you were punishing me! But that’s what you should be apologizing for. Not for unknowingly bringing an object of pure evil in the house, nor for my decision to destroy it.”

The older hobbit had choked on a laugh when he’d heard the story about Lobelia’s Despicable Lime Dress and the Mudd Incident (he’d turned it into a small story to read to his nephew after a bad day where he needed a laugh) but it died a quick death when his nephew finished his sentence.

“But what if I’d known it was evil? What if…” Here, he whispered his worst fear, one he’d kept hidden for years, afraid of confronting it. In a way, it was easier to not see Frodo’s face while he asked it. “What if I hadn’t been able to get rid of it and had deliberately put you in harm’s way for _it_.”

There was another silence, but this one wasn’t contemplative, bittersweet or even acknowledging. No, it was the kind of silence that proceeded on of Frodo’s heartfelt, if a little harsh, tirades. The kind of silence he’d been subjected to a few times (though less than most parents, thank you very much) before Frodo had told him exactly why his opinion was irrelevant during the lad’s teenage and childhood. The kind Lotho had basked in before receiving the figurative slap of a lifetime and the kind only he knew about.

“The fact that you’re having a coronary over something that _could’ve_ happened is such a grown up thing to do and I am disappointed in you for even thinking. It didn’t happen. It never will. And if you even think for a second you could have reacted that way, then you’re not my Uncle Bilbo. You managed to let it go after carrying and _using_ it for _sixty years_ in Yavanna’s name! You had a hard time doing it, but you did. If you’d known, you would have been the first one to volunteer to throw it in the fire yourself. You would have never been able to keep it close to me if you’d known what it was. Fool yourself all you want, but you raised me. You can’t fool _me_.”

The boy’s words warmed something he had thought forever frozen in his heart. Maybe it was because he believed the words which had escaped his nephews. Maybe it was simply because Frodo believed it. If his nephew was convinced an old, selfish hobbit like him could act with such abnegation, he could try to do it too.

The weight of the world was lifted from his shoulders, to be carried to another. He breathed easier. He still felt guilt for bringing the Ring into Frodo’s life, but no more did he blame himself for not knowing or for his nephew’s decision.

“This is when I leave.” His nephew said softly.

Bilbo cleared his throat and roughly whipped his tears away.

“You arrive here in a long, long time, you hear me, my boy?”

Frodo laughed and when it did, it sounded like bells in the wind.

“I love you.” He roughly intoned, throat still contracted from trying not to sob.

“I love you too, Uncle Bilbo.”

After that, the hobbit was left alone for Yavanna knew how long. The cave started going up, burning his thighs in a way he would have found unpleasant had been climbing anything else but out of a damp cavern.

He breathed fresher air; rock became a lighter grey and widened a little, his shoulders not brushing against the stone wall every few steps.

The path opened suddenly in a greater cave with a big lake in one corner he barely paid attention to. His eyes were only for the mouth that carved itself from stone and led to what he thought was some sort of clearing, a few feet away from a forest. Bilbo sped up his steps, trotting more than walking to reach freedom faster.

One step on cold stone, another on wet rock, another, and another until his hard soles met soft earth. He grinded his toes in dirt and grass and just breathed. Greenery filled his every senses and he’d never felt so happy to be outside.

He opened his eyes and they fell on a tall (though not as tall as a Man) and broad figure with long black hair. His breath stuttered in his throat. He’d never felt more _right_.

He broke into a run.

Thankfully for Thorin’s nerves, the trees started dispersing themselves more and the sun filtered through them more obviously after Thranduil had disappeared.

He was grateful for the small hope it provided since he felt like trudging through a dark forest reminiscent of Mirkwood would have driven him insane without it. The only reason he hadn’t backed out immediately was for one little hobbit and he was the motivation behind every step he took. Letting go of the hate he’d painstakingly cultivated for Thranduil had lightened them greatly and he couldn’t help but be grudgingly glad for Yavanna’s trial.

From what Frerin had said, there were to be three people he’d meet in these woods. If his brother was one of them (as he suspected) and Thranduil was the other, that left only one person. One ‘trial’ left to take.

He grumpily wondered who he’d have to stop hating. Would it be another elf? He didn’t think so… Maybe it would be a Man? He’d been conned more than once by the greedy bastards back when he’d been a King only in title and a smith in actuality.

He remembered with particular hate a short (only a head or so taller than himself) man with a glass eye and a syrupy smile. Domos, he thought he’d been called. He’d been one hell of a slimy bastard, always playing in everyone’s back. They’d found his body in a dumpster and the village his people had been living in had immediately assumed the dwarves were the guilty ones since they’d seen Domos around them. The fact that the bastard had been lowering the prices to their work until they were basically giving it away (it’s not like they had had a lot of options. They’d needed the money) had contributed to the theory that the dwarves were the killers.

The fact was, no Ereborian had been stupid enough to even think about killing one of the people that were housing them, even if he was a bastard. But humans were distrustful of other races (weren’t they all?) and they’d assumed the worst of their guests and ran them out of town. Suffice to say, Thorin still hated Domos for what he had put his people through in life _and_ death.

So yes, Domos was probably a good choice. Preemptively, Thorin tried to think about how he would let go of his hate. Maybe telling himself that dying wasn’t exactly Domos’ fault or that being run out of town wasn’t on a dead man.

Under his breath, the dwarrow muttered about living a privileged life of rainbows and positive feelings. 

“I would say I agree with you, but there is something to be said about living a life of happiness, wouldn’t you think?”

Thorin startled and cursed. “Sigin’adad.” He said softly.

“Sigindashat.” Thròr answered formally.

The silence that followed was only broken by Thorin’s quick footsteps and the branches that snapped beneath them.

“Why are _you_ here?” The younger dwarf couldn’t help but ask. He felt marginally better knowing his insubordination had only been directed at a copy of his grandfather and not the real one.

“I think you know why.”

“Are you saying I hate you?” He questioned harshly.

“I know you do.”

Thorin scoffed. “Why would I hate you?”

It was Thròr’s turn to make a derisive noise. “The Arkenstone would be a probable start. My greed blinded me to the point it called to a dragon and destroyed our home. After that, I lead us to the gates of Khazad _-_ dûm in order to retake it from the orcs and the goblins. It led to many deaths, including mine, as well as your father’s disappearance. What I know you could never forgive, however, is your nadad’s death as well as your namad’s One’s death. I know you blame yourself as much as you blame me for Azanulbizar. Your hate is justified in every way. I failed as a king in my madness and brought a dragon to our home before risking the survivors’ lives in a fool’s quest which cost you almost all of the family you had left. As a Sigin’adad, I failed all of my family.”

Thorin’s blood boiled as he heard the words which escaped Thròr. It didn’t matter that he could see Frerin every day of his afterlife. It didn’t matter that the light which had escaped Dìs when Vìli had died was returned. It didn’t matter that Frìs and Thraìn were once again standing side by side and it didn’t matter that Thròr used his old door with the Arkenstone carved on top as a target for his throwing axes.

All that mattered was that the dwarf behind him and had destroyed his whole family and rendered his home inhabitable.

Thorin curled his hands into fists and resisted the urge to whirl around to confront his grandfather head on. 

He knew saying what darkness lay on his heart was what he was supposed to do, but the words wouldn’t come. He gritted his teeth and tried to breathe in through his nose. It moderately worked until Thròr whispered his name with a _kind_ voice. A dam broke. 

“You took everything from me.” He spat venomously. “Every single one of your decisions after we found that stone took something from me. At first it was my pride, then my honor. As if it wasn’t enough, you brought the wyrm and took away my home, but most importantly my _‘_ Amad. And you took and you took, taking away ‘Adad and Frerin and Vìli. And you _died_. You died and I had to avenge you, because you were my Sigin’adad. I fought against Azog for you. I almost killed that filth for you, but it didn’t change the fact that you had taken away my freedom by making me a King in exile. I had to be the one to find us a home. I had to grovel and beg the dwarf lords and I had to live years alongside Men only to end up establishing what was left of us in the poverty of Ered Luin.”

Thorin heaved. It was like he’d vomited everything that had been clawing at his heart since he’d seen his Sigin’adad once again. He didn’t think he’d ever talked so much and so truthfully to Thròr and his heart beat erratically in his ribcage. All of the pent up frustration and hate and _shame_ seemed to have left his body and he felt almost too light, like a breeze would pick him up and drag him away from here.

“You are right, Thorin. I did all of that and more. I brought shame upon you and upon our family. But you showed yourself to be stronger than I could ever have been. The gold sickness immediately took a hold of you, but you fought it for your people, something I could never do.”

“You think your sweet words reassure me?” He hissed angrily, whipping a defiant tear that had slipped down his cheek and wetted his beard. “You think complimenting me on the most basic task will take away all of your sins? All of mine?”

Thròr carefully answered, choosing his words. “No, but your accomplishment is far from basic. It is the only real magic that affects dwarrows and it digs its claws deeper for it. You broke away from your own merit.”

“After I’d betrayed my word!” Thorin suddenly snapped. “After I’d doubted my own kin, after I’d put worthless gold above the lives of those who had shown their loyalty time and time again! After I’d exiled, insulted and almost _killed_ my One, the only one that stood up to me!”

The words were dragged out of him painfully, like a body through shards of broken glass. His knees buckled and he fell on the soft earth. Humid dirt sinked into the fabric of his trousers and he panted heavily.

He didn’t hear anything, but suddenly Thròr’s voice was close to his ear.

“Don’t hold on, Thorin. Hate can only bring hate.”

The next pant that left him was made visible by the cold that had seeped into the woods some time earlier, but he swore he could have seen something else leave him. Something foul and dark that ate at his insides and gnarled at his heart.

After that, only silence and his harsh breathing could be heard. The dwarrow couldn’t have known how long he stayed there, kneeling on the ground and simply being.

When his breathing had settled and his hands had stopped shaking, he climbed to his feet. His legs protested and Thorin wondered if it would become a habit to have a hard time getting up.

It took some effort, but he managed to convince his limbs to cooperate and walked through the forest, noting with relief that the trees gave way to more and more light.

Finally, they seemed to open in a clearing, the sun gazing down at him. He threw his head back and enjoyed the sunlight on his skin, letting it warm him.

A small sound broke him out of his reverie and focused his eyes on a small figure a few feet away. It was standing in front of a cave and didn’t move for a second. The bouncy curls and small stature broke into a run and Thorin immediately copied it. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Was it worth the wait? I hope so! For those of you who didn't see the age-old reference, this was inspired by Orpheus cheating death in Greek Mythos. Basically, Orpheus' girlfriend dies and he's so sad he decides to go to the Underworld to beg Hades, the god of the Underworld (and his wife Persephone, goddess of flowers) to bring her back to life. They agree, on the condition that on the way back, he can't look behind him or his girlfriend will be brought back to death forever and he won't have a second chance. At first, it's fine, but in the last track, he starts to angst over the fact that he can't hear her, so he turns around, realizes her spirit was there but didn't make any sound. She goes back to the Underworld forever and Orpheus is sad. The End.
> 
> I love Greek Mythology! Honestly, it's highly probable it'll make another cameo in my future fics, as will Norse mythology. If you're interested, I suggest watching Overly Sarcastic Production, they simplify everything and it's hilarious. 
> 
> But anyways, I hope you enjoyed this chapter. The last one shouldn't take as long to update. Continue to leave kudos (I smile like a degenerate each time I see I got them) and leave comments, they make my day and I love reading them!


	7. Happy Ever After

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> After the last Trial, Bilbo and Thorin are finally reunited.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> OH MY GOD! It's done! I'm done! I'm so excited. This is definetly the biggest project I've finished, writing wise. See, I always start those big stories, but then writer's block kicks in and I just...give up. I've managed to finish this and I am so proud. But, I would have never finished it if not for you, my dear readers. Your kudos and especially your comments brought a smile to my face and made me kick my own arse. So thank you! 
> 
> Also, rest assured that Afterlife Shenanigans are far from over, I already have an idea bustling around in my brain. I might take a little break from it, give myself some breathing room, but rest assured it will come out. I also have this big fic idea in mind about a reporter Bilbo and an MMA fighter Thorin. If you're interested, let me know. I've already kind of started and it would settle my mind if someone was looking forward to reading it. I might give you guys a preview if I figure out how they work. 
> 
> Anyways, enjoy your read!

Bilbo couldn’t hear his footsteps over the loud pounding of his heart. It was the only sound that seemed to bring reality to what he could only describe as a dream.

He leapt and, because he was most certainly dreaming, arms as thick as tree trunks caught him and hugged him tight to a broad chest. 

He was dreaming. 

He was dreaming.

He wasn’t dreaming. 

Bilbo curled his fingers in an ebony mane speckled with grey. His legs tightened around a muscled waist and his eyes searched and searched… until they met a gaze as blue as the sky. 

Thorin. 

_ Thorin. _

Thorin.

He was pretty sure he’d been mumbling the word over and over again when his dwarf answered.

“Bilbo, Bilbo, Bilbo, Bilbo, Bilbo…” Unlike in the dreadful cave he’d just left, there was no echo in the clearing. Still, Thorin’s voice seemed to fill the ambient air and wrapped him up like a warm blanket during a cold winter night. 

A laugh bubbled out of his throat and his eyes filled with tears. “You’re  _ here _ .” He croaked.

“I’m here.” His dwarf answered.

A bright smile split his face and lit his eyes up under Bilbo’s awestruck face. And suddenly, he couldn’t wait anymore. He’d waited for 83 years. His patience had run dry.

Bilbo dived down and captured Thorin’s lips in a kiss. There was a second when his King didn’t respond before his mouth was carefully claimed, with a tenderness Bilbo had almost forgotten he possessed. 

Lips overlapped sweetly until Bilbo sneakily swiped his tongue over Thorin’s tender flesh. Thick fingers tightened on his thighs, digging in his skin deliciously, a groan falling from the dwarf’s mouth. 

His carrier tugged him impossibly closer before bluntly invading his mouth with his tongue. 

His King was a conqueror alright. 

Noses bumped into each other and foreheads clashed. Bilbo  _ tugged _ the strands of hair between his fingers and Thorin squeezed every part of the hobbit he could get his hands on with a groan.

Parting for breath was one of the hardest things he’d had to do. And he’d had to let the Ring go so many years ago.

“I missed you…” The hobbit panted, eyes slightly glazed. 

“I missed you too, Burglar.” Thorin seemed to be in a similar state, chest rising and falling with each heaving breath, blue eyes barely focused on his lover.

Bilbo laughed again. “Only you, Thorin…” Only he would make the moniker sound fond and affectionate. “Only you…”

The King gave an embarrassed half-smile, seemingly understanding what the hobbit in his arms meant. Happiness bloomed in his chest that still, after 80 years, his dwarf still understood what he meant. 

Carefully, and keeping his eyes on Bilbo for any objection, Thorin knocked their foreheads together. 

Leaning down slightly (he was an inch or so taller than Thorin, thanks to the dwarf holding him up) Bilbo brushed his button nose against the point of Thorin’s large one. 

He was rewarded with another grin. The white of Thorin’s teeth stood out against the darkness of his beard. 

Bilbo nuzzled his love, heart soaring. 

The next kiss was initiated by Thorin. It was soft, a brush of lips, a stroke of tongue, the exchange of love. Then another. And another. Time had no meaning anymore, seconds were counted in kisses, minutes in words of love, hours in panting breaths. 

Somewhere between a kiss and a hug, Bilbo was put down on his feet. His toes teased the soil under them and he tilted his head up, meeting Thorin halfway. His dwarf was leaning down to compensate for their height difference. Big, scarred hands left his thighs and cradled his head softly but firmly, as one would a butterfly. The pad of a thumb brushed against the point of his ears and Bilbo let out a choked moan. 

A sly smirk took residence on the lips he was currently ravishing and he would have commented if the sensible tip of his ears hadn’t been carefully pinched. 

He whined.

Thorin’s kisses became more insistent. Bilbo was only too happy to respond in kind, twirling strands of thick hair around his fingers to obtain a better grip.

Thorin groaned at the feeling. Spurred on, Bilbo tugged again, releasing a delighted moan from his lover. 

Never one to be outdone (his pride wouldn’t allow it, Bilbo thought wryly) Thorin brushed his ear again. 

Thorin detached his lips from Bilbo’s drawing an annoyed grunt from the fussy hobbit. He wasn’t disappointed long, however, when whiskers caressed his pulse and the dwarf began to mouth at his neck. 

Kisses down his neck that forced his head back in delight. A lick on his beating artery that made his eyes flutter and his toes to curl against soft earth. The gentle scrap of teeth that teared another moan from his lavished throat. 

“Thorin…” He breathed. A hum answered him, fingers playing with his curls before abruptly brushing his ear, scattering his thoughts.

He whined again. “Thorin...gods...c’mhere.” Bilbo forced his King back to his lips, mentally damning all propriety. Thick arms dropped from his head and wrapped around his waist, tugging him close. Thorin was a solid, warm presence against his body and the hard length in his breeches throbbed. 

Desperate for any kind of friction, Bilbo rolled his hips against the firm thigh that had slithered between his legs. Light exploded under his eyelids and he moaned again.

They’d barely done anything and Bilbo felt like he was ready to come in his pants. He blamed his last years of life and content abstinence. 

Thorin reciprocated the movement, his hardness digging into Bilbo’s stomach. He thought he said something, something that sounded like ‘down, down, down!’ because they were suddenly laying on the ground.

Bilbo interlocked his ankles behind Thorin’s back and drew him closer. The position made his arse stand above the ground and the dwarf smirked at the predicament he’d found himself in. Bilbo flicked his nose. A warm chuckle escaped the King’s throat as he folded himself over his One. Black hair fell like a curtain around them, blocking the world from their view. Making good on his profession, the hobbit stole another kiss before drawing back with a splutter. 

There was a second of stunned silence as he tried to remove hair from his mouth before they both giggled like school kids. The dwarf, still laughing, kneeled and tied his hair back in a low ponytail with one of the many leather strands he carried on his wrists. His mane was pushed over one shoulder when he regained his place between his lover’s legs. His cheeks were flushed pink with mirth. 

“Better?” He inquired, an eyebrow raised in fake annoyance. 

The soft look in his eyes betrayed him. 

Bilbo nodded primly. “Much. Thank you, Your Majesty.”

Thorin snarled. “Don’t call me that.” They were the only words he received as a warning before lips were ravishing him again. His brain hadn’t fully recovered when his dwarf migrated to his jaw, leaving delight and whisker burns behind. He moved down his neck, leaving love mark after love mark, to Bilbo’s loud pleasure. 

Each sting of teeth and warmth of tongue fed the fire burning in his belly. 

His suspenders were snapped away and Thorin then proceeded to unbutton his waistcoat and button down, leaving a trail of kisses and a necklace of love bites on his collarbone that would stay exposed unless he wore a turtleneck. 

Calloused fingertips brushed against sensitive buds. His nipples hardened and he groaned. “Get on with it.” He ordered between gritted teeth. 

Thorin huffed a laugh. His breath pushed against the skin of his belly and a full body shiver made his eyes roll back in his head. 

“Demanding hobbit.” He puffed. 

“Unsatisfactory dwarf.” He snarked back. Those big hands he loved so tightened on his waist. 

“I’ll show you ‘unsatisfactory’...” Bilbo grinned.

Bilbo was relieved of his shirt in a few perfunctory movements. Next came his breeches and undergarments, which were tugged down together. They momentarily caught in his large feet and Thorin swore in Khuzdul while Bilbo kicked away the fabric with a laugh. 

Both had been dressed simply but Thorin still had too many layers for the hobbit’s liking. The gauntlets were the first to go, quickly followed by his fur coat. His belt was thrown away, not to be seen for a while and Bilbo attacked his blue tunic. He normally appreciated the garment, but right now, it was in the way of a naked Thorin, which just wouldn’t do. Meanwhile, his dwarf was cursing up a storm trying to single handedly remove his chain mail. It clinkered when it landed over itself in a messy pool of metal. Bilbo viciously untied Thorin’s leather shirt’s laces. He discarded it with great prejudice. 

“You wear too many layers.” He growled at the loose black chemise in his eyesight, the only thing standing between him and Thorin’s chest. 

Thorin rolled his eyes. “My layers have the benefit of protecting against the frost and in battle. You wear yours under the guise of  _ fashion _ .” He intoned darkly. His seriousness was undermined by the fact that his shoulders got stuck in his shirt. He tugged a few times before the hobbit grabbed a hold of it and removed it briskly, greedy eyes already roaming the newly exposed flesh. 

Bilbo ran his fingers on the hard muscles of Thorin’s shoulders, around his bulging biceps, over a massive pectoral, down a series of abs with a hint of fat hanging off of them. Goosebumps made the thick black hair on his body stand at attention. The coarse strands tickled his palms as he admired the tattoos covering his lover’s flesh. The runes and sharp lines fascinated him. 

On his left bicep, there was a sword going through a ring and encoring itself in an intricate star. The pommel stood at the very top of his shoulder while the tip of the star reached mid-bicep. Directly underneath it what Bilbo guessed was a stylised crown, the hard strokes of ink circling his massive muscle. Underneath the elbow of the same arm and stretching across the curve of flesh was another tattoo. The Khuzdul words had been inked between two straight black lines. Still on Thorin’s left side, stretching across his ribs and flirting with his abdominal muscles were four sets of Khuzdul words written in vertical lines. His whole right forearm was plaited, resembling an armor that shifted over his skin until it transformed into the gaping mouth of a dragon over his pectoral. Smaug (for it could only be him) was traced with unyielding lines filled with hate and fear. The ink was the shade of freshly spilled blood and stood out from the thick hair covering it like a fresh wound. 

Invested as Bilbo was with the art over Thorin’s body, it took him a few seconds to realise the dwarf had shucked his boots, his socks and was removing his pants and underclothes in one smooth motion. The tattoos continued on Thorin’s right thigh, armored as it was with dark ink that blended with coarse hair. His left foot arbored a few Khuzdul words too. When Thorin turned around to push away his things, Bilbo was treated to the sight of powerful back muscles, which shifted attractively with each movement. Down the length of his spine were 7 distinct runes. Unlike the tattoos on his foot, ribs and arm, they weren’t words. Here, they were symbols. Between two adorable dimples and directly above his lovely arse, Thorin had a tiny square which reunited itself at the four corners in loops. A circle had been inked on top of it. A few inches higher was the second rune: 8 forks related in the middle and forming a circular shape. The one above it was very similar, the only glaring differences being the absence of a ring in the middle and the added complexity of the forks’ branches. The fourth was strange. It vaguely looked like a table viewed from the side with fringes hanging from it. The right leg was shaped like two stairs, three little lines holding the base of it. The second leg only had one step before it curved into a round shape that never closed. Again, three little lines had been added at the end. The rune between Thorin’s shoulder blades started in a tiny circle with one line going through it vertically and a second one horizontally. The four ends had three lines pushing away from their stand and hooking slightly at the end. Tattoo number six was the simplest: four rounded triangles formed a circle. The last one stood at the base of Thorin’s nape and showed the famous Tree of Life. 

His dwarf regretfully turned around, blocking the view of his enticing tattoos and mouth watering arse. He laid down between Bilbo’s legs. 

“I’ll tell you what they all mean another time.” Thorin said against his forehead, where he had laid a tender kiss. Bilbo smiled at the correct interpretation of his curious gaze.

His small hand traced a path of caresses down his chest before grazing lower and lower. Thorin’s breathing hitched and Bilbo wrapped his hand around his manhood. It was thick and long, hardened by desire and growing from a patch of dark hair that lightened towards his belly and expanded again on his chest. He was bigger than any hobbit Bilbo had ever seen. 

Bilbo squeezed and Thorin bowed his head, a moan leaving his pink lips.

The King’s hands wandered. Calluses caressed the breadth of his shoulders, down the soft flesh of his torso, occasionally brushing at the sparse hair there. One hand wrapped around his waist, his thumb tracing maddening circles on his hip bones while the other took ahold of his sex. 

Dirt flew in the air when he knocked his head against the ground in pleasure. 

The fire in his belly grew stronger and hotter as Thorin picked up his rhythm. Bilbo squeezed the hand he had wrapped around his lover and a hiss left his dwarf. Thorin’s hand encased Bilbo’s whole manhood and another moan left him. 

“Thorin…” He slurred again. The word spurred his lover on. Bilbo was a mess of sensations. The warmth of a hand, the wetness of a tongue on his throat, his precum being smeared over himself by a rough thumb, teeth grazing a nipple…

“Thorin..Thorin, I need, oh yes… I want…” Words were tripping and falling over his tongue as they fled his brain, reminiscent of his blood’s mad dash downstairs earlier. 

Bilbo hadn’t realised his hands had migrated to take a hold of Thorin’s shoulders until he dug his short nails in the muscles and drew a moan from his lover. Thorin apparently liked being scratched. Bilbo kept it in mind. 

A sweaty beard grazed his ear and he had to bite his lip to stop himself from coming right there and then. “What do you want, ghivashel? 

The squeeze of a hand around him and the hot breath brushing his ear made his eyes roll in the back of his head, the endearment releasing a shiver through his body. 

“Take me, Thorin. I’ve waited long enough, let’s not linger.” 

“You’re impatient.” His lover breathily remarked. 

“And you’re slow.” He groused shakily. 

Bilbo was ready. He was ready for Thorin to bring him on the brink and lower him before pushing him up and up again. He looked forward to Thorin’s bigger than average manhood stretching him wide and  _ fucking _ pleasure out of him. He was impatient for words of love being slurred between spit slicked lips.

Which is why he swore (and wasn’t that rare) when Thorin’s warmth left him and he raised his head to see his dwarf fiddle with his tunic.

“What the  _ fuck _ are you doing?” He couldn’t help but snap. 

Thorin threw him a very unimpressed look. “I thought you wanted me to take you. I don’t know about you, burglar-mine, but doing it dry won’t be pleasant for either you or me.” He raised a little crystal bottle. It was dwarfed by his large hand and reflected the last light of the sun.

Bilbo would deny the blush that took root under his cheeks until the day he… well, until whatever came after death.

Thorin’s smug smirk was punishment enough. 

His lover crawled back to him, his mocking smile softening as they met once again in a kiss. 

Big hands explored his body lightly, but Bilbo was bolder, pinching a nipple here, scratching Thorin’s back, stroking his length and squeezing his waist between his knees. 

Each growl and moan was worth it. 

Suddenly, a calloused fingertip, drenched with oil (and it smelled suspiciously like Thorin’s hair) brushed against his hole. 

Bilbo  _ melted _ . The finger drew a circle once, twice, before dipping inside. It had barely breached him when it withdrew again, rolling again his opening again. 

He whined. Thorin hushed him but did enter him slowly. Knuckle. By. Bloody. Knuckle. 

“Thorin.” He bitched. His King was undeterred and continued his mad torture. 

Back and forth, back and forth. His index started a slow rhythm that drove Bilbo insane. It was like the fire in his belly was being fed branch by branch, no, twig by twig instead of all at once. Bilbo tried to fuck himself on the finger, desperation taking over propriety. 

Thorin, bless the gods, let him. Bilbo was only glad one of his dwarf’s fingers was the size of two of his or he would have gone mad. 

When Thorin’s major joined the party, Bilbo had to blink away stars. “Thorin…” He breathed, like a prayer. 

The intrusion momentarily pinched, but a brush against his ear, a lick down his neck and a stroke on his cock was all he required to forget the small discomfort. And oh...those fingers… Bilbo sometimes forgot Thorin was a talented harp player. 

The calluses on his fingers, from strings, swords and boiling metal only added to the experience. When they touched his prostate, the world was washed away in white, his orgasm literally dragged out of him against his will. 

When he came back to himself, his legs were laid akimbo on the ground, perspiration wetted his body and his breath was heavy. Thorin looked poleaxed. 

“Mahal… I’m sorry, I didn’t think you would…” The poor man was obviously taken aback.

Bilbo raised a tired eyebrow. “Believe me, it’s completely fine. Now come back here.” With an herculean effort, the hobbit raised his spent arms and dragged his lover to him. To be fair, Thorin looked so surprised, it was no hardship. 

“You still want…” 

It was then it hit Bilbo. “You dwarves only come once and that’s it?”

Thorin nodded slowly. “Yes. And then we require some time to rest.”

Bilbo found the energy to smirk. “Hobbits have a  _ very _ small recovery period. How do you think we have so many little ones? No hobbit is satisfied with one climax. Now come here.”

Thorin’s uncertainty fell to a feral desire, which was a better look on him. His lips teased Bilbo’s ear. “And how many orgasms do you insist on having, Master Burglar?”

Bilbo hummed, body already shaking with need. “Three, four if you feel the need to show off.”

Teeth encased the pointy edge of his skin. “Then show off I shall.”

Thorin’s two fingers penetrated him again, but this time they were bolder and more self assured. It was then Bilbo realised Thorin had been going soft on him, trying to keep him from the brink. Foolish dwarf. 

Any coherent thought promptly left his mind when a third finger joined the two others, ramming directly on his pleasure spot. He moaned. 

Thorin’s strokes were hard and so very good, Bilbo’s whole body bouncing with them, yet it was not  _ enough _ .

“Thorin, Thorin come on. I’m ready, Thorin, just... sweet potatoes, just get in here.”

His King muffled chuckle in his collarbone before retreating his fingers. 

Impatiently, Bilbo took a hold of the oil (and now he knew it was hair oil) dumped some in his palm while making sure to warm it up a little before trapping Thorin’s cock in his hand. His lover moaned shamelessly, his gravelly voice raising goosebumps on his sensitive flesh. Once his manhood was slathered with the mixture, Bilbo locked his ankles behind Thorin’s back. His eager arse was a few inches above the ground again and placed in the perfect position to be fucked, in his humble opinion. 

Thorin’s paws almost touched each other around his soft waist as he held him securely. Bilbo tightened one hand on a wide shoulder while the other twisted in Thorin’s ponytail.

His King lined himself and threw him one questioning look. Bilbo rolled his eyes and Thorin found the time to smack his arse in retaliation. Bilbo kicked his bottom with a big heel. The bastard didn’t even seem to notice. 

Bilbo’s ill thoughts about pompous King pricks were scattered when a massive head nudged his entrance. By all the gods, he would be  _ wrecked _ when they were done. 

  
  


Thorin took his time, slowly entering him and holding him close, like he was a piece of glass. Bilbo would have protested if he hadn’t felt like he said piece of glass. The head popped in and Bilbo whined helplessly. 

“Do you want me to come out?” His nobel words were in contrast with his lust filled voice, the sweat lingering on his skin, his wide pupils almost swallowing his whole iris and the hardness sitting in Bilbo’s arse. 

“Don’t you dare.” He managed to mumble, ignoring his emptiness momentarily. 

Inch by inch, Thorin’s manhood carved its way deeper into his channel until Bilbo felt like it was touching places that had never been touched. It probably was. 

It was almost too much when he felt meaty hips lay flush against the plumpness of his butt cheeks. Thorin was so  _ deep _ . Bilbo had never felt so full in all of his life and he had to blink away tears of pleasure.

His back was lowered to the ground softly and suddenly Thorin’s cock was pushing right against his prostate and the stimulation, the fullness, the…  _ everything  _ hit him like a warg and he came again. 

When his vision cleared and his hearing came back to him, Thorin was leaning above him, eyes bright. “Number two.” He roughly counted. 

And then he started  _ moving _ . He drew out then plunged back in hitting all the right fucking places. In and out, in and out and Bilbo couldn’t fucking breathe. 

Each movement of Thorin’s hips was like heaven and he could feel the fire growing and growing and growing. 

“Thorin!” He whined or screamed or pleaded. His lover was similarly affected, mumbling his name over and over again, moaning and growling in pleasure. 

Thorin held him closer, lips bruising against each other, not really kissing, just breathing, touching, loving…

“Thorin…” He called again. 

“Come on, Bilbo. Come, ghivashel. Just fucking…” He never managed to finish his sentence. Or at least the hobbit didn’t hear it.

Thorin’s manhood hit against his spot again and it was the last drop in the vase, the last branch in the fire. Bilbo spilled over his cum streaked stomach, his head roared and he clenched his arse against the cock invading him. 

Thorin moaned loudly, sounding like a wild animal and his thrusts became harder and faster, chasing his own release as much as he was trying to tip Bilbo over the edge one last time. 

Bilbo hiccuped. Everything felt so good, his nerve endings were screaming the world was blurring, there was only Thorin, Thorin,  _ Thorin _ ....

Then the bastard wrapped one of his large hands around his cock and started pumping in time with his hips.

Bilbo howled and fisted his hands on Thorin’s scalp, tugging and tugging at the hair, almost pulling it out…

The King came with a garbled sound, like a dying animal. He exploded inside his smaller lover, painting his insides white. His whole weight crushed Bilbo. He was the most beautiful thing Bilbo had ever seen, he thought deliriously. 

He didn’t stop thrusting and pumping and his voice, when he spoke, was rougher than rocks.

“Come for me, ghivashel.” Then, he clamped his teeth over his ear and  _ bit _ .

Bilbo obeyed, his cum hitting him in the face, unseeing eyes rolling into his head, body tensing in ecstasy. 

He must have blacked out, because when he came back to himself, Thorin was on his back and his head was laying on a wide shoulder. His heart was the only thing he could hear, beating a rapid tempo against his temples.

Thorin’s hair had been let out of its ponytail and a few strands gently lifted in the soft breeze. Bilbo moved up and down with his even breathing and he was warm. Delicate fingers traced Smaug’s face on his lover’s chest. 

Evidently feeling it, Thorin dropped a kiss on the crown of his hobbit’s head. Bilbo smiled secretly at the tender gesture. 

“Hello.” The King intoned hoarsely. 

Bilbo rolled in his embrace, chin digging in Smaug’s yellow eye. “Hello.” He mumbled contentedly. 

Thorin raised his head and slid his left arm underneath his head. 

“You seem happy.”

Bilbo snorted at the fact statement. “I just received the most mind numbing orgarsm I’ve had in years and you’re here. Of course I’m happy.”

Thorin quirked an eyebrow. “Not the most mind numbing orgasm in your life, aye?”

Bilbo dropped a kiss on that regal nose. “Hmmm…” He pretended to think, tapping his chin with a finger. “I don’t know, I’m pretty old and I don’t remember everything…”

He didn’t get to finish his sentence. Thorin rolled him to the sound of his delighted shriek. One of his massive paws trapped his wrists above his head as he kissed up and down his throat. 

“I guess I’ll just have to do better next time, old man.” Bilbo squawked indignantly. 

“I’ll have you know 135 is a perfectly respectable age..!”

“135!!” Thorin chortled. “You’re practically a baby!” Bilbo kicked him in the ribs. 

The fierce King faked a pained gasp and rolled over, bringing his laughing lover with him. 

“You should respect your seniors, lad.” He joked. 

Bilbo giggled. “Senior my arse! Did anyone ever tell you you look more like you’re 175 instead of 195?”

Thorin nodded seriously. “Aye, all the time.” 

Bilbo burst out laughing and Thorin followed behind. 

The chuckles died down with the lowering of the sun. Thorin extended an arm and retrieved his fur coat to cover them both from twilight’s chill. 

Bilbo breathed Thorin’s scent. One of metal and warmth. Fur and sweat. Sex and, occasionally, blood. Spice and safety. 

They didn’t talk, words weren’t needed.

Their peace was interrupted by two figures appearing before them. Bilbo jumped and Thorin swore. He truly had a foul mouth. 

Lady Yavanna was gazing at them approvingly. Next to Her, a large dwarf that could only be Mahal was frowning at them. The look would have been terrifying if not for the approving glint in His grey eyes. 

Both Bilbo and Thorin sat up, the dwarf’s fur coat pooling into their laps and only barely keeping their dignities intact. 

The Lady smirked at the blush that invaded the couple’s cheeks. Bilbo spared a moment to jealously stare at Thorin’s beard, which hid the worst of his embarrassment. 

“Congratulations, my children.” Yavanna intoned, still looking more smug than any divinity had a right to. “You have passed our Trials and as such, you can be with each other.”

Bilbo gulped nervously, but still stared at Her head on. “For how long?” He dared question. 

Thorin squeezed him disapprovingly, but the stubborn hobbit refused to budge.

Lady Yavanna laughed. The clearing brightened as if it was midday. Flowers, which had been dropping with the weight of their petals or crushed under the bodies of a dwarf and a hobbit suddenly straightened and their colors became vivacious. 

Surprisingly, it was Mahal who answered. “Until the world is rebuilt and we have to send you back.” His voice was like an avalanche. It crowded around them and shook the earth under him, pebbles vibrating in place.

Thorin bowed his head respectfully and Bilbo could see the way his shoulders lost their tension. 

“Thank You.” He whispered to his Maker. 

Mahal waved him off. “I created Ones to make you happy, child. I would not tear that joy from you for all the mithril in the world.” He told him softly, the ground quaking with each syllable. 

Thorin tugged Bilbo closer and the hobbit squeaked bashfully when the coat almost fell from its important perch. 

Lady Yavanna laughed again. The grass grew an inch under his eyes. Her husband grumbled something about getting dressed and in the next second, both hobbit and dwarf were wearing their clothes.

Bilbo hastily got up, brushing inexistant dirt from his breeches while Thorin followed at a more sedate, if graceful pace. 

Using all the politeness he’d developed as a respectable Baggins of Bag-End, Bilbo answered the deities. “Thank You so much for this beautiful gift. You can be sure we will cherish it.” His nose twitched. “However, I must ask. Where will we go?” 

Thorin tensed again beside him. Bilbo knew why because he felt it too. The idea of abandoning his family was distressing at best. He’d barely gotten his parents, Drogo and Prim back. He didn’t want to lose them yet. Never seeing Frodo again was definitely not in the cards either. And that was without even thinking about the fact that, were he to permanently move to Mahal’s Halls, he would never be surrounded by plants and rolling hills and life. Similarly, he knew Thorin could never abandon the family he had been reunited with after death or the protective cover of a mountain. 

With a pang, Bilbo thought of Fìli and Kìli.

“Neither of us want to lose a child.” Lady Yavanna spoke gravely. “We will install portals in both of our worlds for you to use. They will transport you from one after life to the other should you cross it.”

Mahal took over. “Under my Lady’s advice, I have built you a... _ smial _ , Master Baggins. Your portal to my Halls will be in the cellar. It is the blue door with an anvil on it. My child, yours is in your sleeping quarters. The door is round and green.” He nodded decisively.

Bilbo could feel tears flooding his eyes and the discreet sniff next to him alerted him to Thorin’s similar reaction to the gift their Makers have just given them.

“Thank You.” They whispered again, their voices overlapping slightly in their grateful eagerness. 

Mahal nodded once again, His grey eyes suspiciously reflective, but Lady Yavanna frowned suddenly. The sky darkened.

“Don’t make us regret such a gift.” She said, the honey in Her sweet soprano hardened. The newly reunited couple cringed and Thorin squeezed Bilbo in his arms. The hobbit clenched his fingers into the fur of his lover’s coat. 

As if it never happened, Yavanna smiled like the sun. Nature brightened around them. “Although I’m sure you won’t.”

Mahal, obviously used to His wife’s mercurial temper, didn’t even flinch through the display. If anything, a smile twitched under a beard of molten lava. 

The goddess clapped Her hands together. Flowers sprouted around them.“I think it’s time for you both to go back home.”

Just like at the end of their trials, consciousness began to fade as the world turned black. The only difference was the warm Bilbo now clung to. 

  
  
  
  


It felt like waking up after a restful nap. Bilbo lazily blinked his eyes open, mind still a little sluggish from sleep. The sun was shining through a round window, greenery climbing around its edges and peeking at the metal frame. The warm rays painted the room in a golden light and the sun was clear blue. Even though the panels were closed, Bilbo could smell fresh earth and crisp wind. He was  _ home _ .

The satin sheets were soft underneath his body and he curled up on the comfortable mattress. A little grunt made him turn around. 

_ Oh. _

Still asleep, yet shuffling closer to wrap him in his arms, was Thorin. The dwarf was naked from the waist up, only wearing smallclothes that rucked up on his shins. He’d kicked off the sheets during the night, as he’d often done on their journey. 

Sunshine brushed against his tanned skin and almost made him glow. The silver strands in his hair shone and seemed made of mithril. His long nose cast a triangle of shadow on a sharp cheekbone and when he tugged Bilbo into his arms, the small frown between his eyebrows disappeared. He suddenly looked younger and less burdened. Bilbo curled up against his chest, brushing warm fingers against an even warmer chest. The hobbit smiled. He’d forgotten how hot dwarves ran. It was like a furnace had replaced their core. 

Bilbo nuzzled Thorin’s chest over his heart. His King grumbled slightly and a small, distinctive intake in breath warned the hobbit that he’d woken up. 

Bilbo smiled again. Those small things, the way he breathed when he woke up, how his scowl would deepen if he was thinking about something, his tendency to bite his pipe, his favorite fruit… Those were the little things Bilbo had greedily hoarded after his passing. He had held on to them desperately, like a faunt to his teddy bear, and hoped they were enough to keep the King Under the Mountain alive in his mind. He would never need to do so again, he thought joyfully. 

“Morning.” Thorin’s voice sounded like he gurgled gravel daily and Bilbo raised his head to watch the beautiful sunlight reflect in his blue eyes. They sparkled like gems and Bilbo’s breath caught in his throat. 

Thorin seemed similarly lost for words and they simply stared at each other for long seconds. 

Bilbo was  _ home _ . Finally, after 83 years of searching, he was  _ home _ .

He raised a slightly shaking hand and brushed away a lock of hair from his lover’s forehead. 

The smile he received in return was warmer than all the furs in the world, warmer than a forge, warmer than the sun. 

“I love you.” He croaked, like the words could encompass everything he wanted to say. 

Thorin’s eyes filled with tears he would never let himself shed. “I love you too.”

Bilbo pressed his forehead against Thorin’s and simply  _ breathed _ .

Arms tightened around his waist and the small puffs of air warmed his cheeks. 

“Welcome home.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Fiou! That was a blast! I'm so glad I took on this project and I really hope you enjoyed the ride as musch as I did. 
> 
> Also, I just want to sooth you guys' mind, the hair oil is multifunction. I'm not sure if such oil actually exists (probably not) but they're dwarves, so I figure if someone made some hair oil that could also be used as lube, it'd be them. Just so you don't cringe about hair oil in...delicate places. It's fine. It's half-made for that.
> 
> Finally, I really want to thank you all. Those that left kudos, those that left comments, those that have been reading this since the first chapter, those that came here halfway and those that read this after it's been finished. Thank you. It means a lot to me. 
> 
> I hope you enjoyed the journey and where it lead us. Be sure to stay tuned for future Afterlife Shenanigans!

**Author's Note:**

> I hope you had a good read. I had lots of fun writing this! If you find you have, don't hesitate to slam the Kudo button or leave a comment. I love what you all have to say, it really makes my day! Constructive criticism is, of course, appreciated. Don't hesitate to tell me what you thought of this story. In any case, I hope you have a nice day/evening/night!
> 
> -Bookwyrm


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